The Stairs
by Elf Eye
Summary: Legolas accompanies Gandalf on a journey to the south. Destination: Shelob's lair.
1. Chapter 1: The Charge

**This is not an elfling tale, but you could say that it is a Legolas-as-scamp story. In it Legolas is no longer a youngling or an adolescent, but he is still youthful in the eyes of his people and although a dedicated warrior he is quick to indulge his mischievous side.**

**The idea for this story comes out of an earlier, elfling tale, "Number Nine," in which Legolas—as Anomen—trails Gandalf to Mordor. There, in the course of making their escape from Orcs, Gandalf orders Legolas to hide behind some rocks but by no means to ascend some stairs up the side of a cliff—stairs that lead to Shelob's lair. In a review of one of the chapters of "Number Nine," Joee hinted that it would be really interesting to see what would happen if Legolas _did_ climb those stairs, and Joee has mentioned that prospect in at least one other review. In this story, then, Legolas does return to those stairs, and maybe, just maybe, he will climb them.**

**Beta Reader: There will only be a few chapters, so I'm doing without a beta reader. **

**Chapter 1: The Charge**

"My dear Mithrandir," Elrond was saying in his most placating tone. "My dear Mithrandir, I meant no offense by my suggestion."

"Hmmph," the wizard snorted in reply. "I would have you know that I have been at this business for several centuries now—and I have done very well at it, thank you very much!"

Smoke poured from the Istar's nose as he puffed furiously on his pipe, and Elrond thought the old wizard bore more than a passing resemblance to an irascible dragon whose hoard had been rifled. Yet the elf-lord was undeterred by this fearsome spectacle.

"Mithrandir," he said mildly. "It is of course true that you have been at this business for many a century. It is also true that your endeavors on behalf of Middle-earth have won from us not only our respect but our affection. You cannot fault us if, in our love for you, we are moved by a wish that you might be spared unnecessary risk."

"I take no _unnecessary _risks," grumbled Mithrandir.

'Ah', thought Elrond, 'so that is the sticking point—what is an _unnecessary_ risk?' Aloud he said, "Say not unnecessary. Say rather _unmitigated_."

"How do you mean?" asked Mithrandir suspiciously.

"'Tis true you must take risks. It is your charge that you act on behalf of the Free Folk of Middle-earth, and you could hardly accomplish that task without taking risks."

"Ye-es?" said Mithrandir, his suspicion unabated.

"On the other hand, it is needful for you to safeguard your person, for how could you fulfill your charge if you were ill or injured?"

Mithrandir knew that Elrond had a point, but he was not about to admit it.

"Therefore," continued Elrond, "the need to take risks must be balanced by the need to stay alive and unharmed—hence the risks, although necessary, must nonetheless be mitigated."

Mithrandir puffed even more furiously than before, and Elrond expected that smoke would momentarily pour from the wizard's ears. Still, the wizard remained silent.

"I do not ask," Elrond went on, "that you give over your latest project. I merely request that you allow Legolas to accompany you. You must concede that his vision and hearing far exceed your own, and that you could only benefit were your wisdom augmented by his strength and agility."

"I must concede nothing," grumbled Mithrandir, at last breaking his silence.

"Oh, yes, you must," retorted Elrond.

"Must not."

"Must."

"Excuse me," said Glorfindel, sticking his head in at the door, "are Elladan and Elrohir within, quarrelling?"

"They are not!" Elrond and Mithrandir replied as one.

"Odd. It certainly sounded as if they were."

"Elrond and I were merely having a discussion," said Mithrandir indignantly.

"Oh, a _discussion_, was that what it was!?"

"Glorfindel," Elrond appealed, "don't you think it would be wise for Mithrandir to be accompanied by Legolas on his journey to the borderlands of Mordor? It is only a month since Mithrandir has been up and about since his skewering by that Orc."

"That's true," said Glorfindel, "and as Aragorn is away in the Northern Waste, you had better have Legolas instead."

"Nonsense! Such an arrangement would be insupportable! Aragorn doesn't mind my pipe, but Legolas is forever wrinkling up his nose at it."

"Mithrandir," chided Elrond, "that is hardly a reason to turn down an offer of aid!"

"You are mistaken, Elrond. It is a very good reason to avoid having that scamp as a traveling companion. Given half a chance, Legolas will steal my pipe weed and throw it into the nearest ditch—you know he will!"

'Good for Legolas', thought Elrond. Aloud he said, "Mithrandir, I shall extract a pledge from Legolas that he leave your pipe weed unmolested. Will that do?"

"I suppose so," grumbled Mithrandir. "Make it a binding pledge, mind you—don't leave him any outs!"

"I will have him swear upon the star of Eärendil," promised Elrond.

Mithrandir looked mollified at that, and the conversation turned to other matters.

"Mithrandir," said Glorfindel, "the scouts have returned, and they report no sign of foes between here and the border of Dunland. If you are resolved on this journey, you should set out at once."

"I am resolved," replied Mithrandir, "and I can set out upon the instant. You know it will not take me long to pack!"

Elrond and Glorfindel both smiled. Mithrandir was famous for traveling light, bearing little more than a bag that he could sling over his shoulder upon a moment's notice. Elrond arose.

"I will go to Legolas, then, and tell him to pack his kit."

"While you are at it," harrumphed Mithrandir, "tell him that this time he needn't pack a gross of combs. One will surely do."

"Mithrandir," objected Glorfindel, "you know very well it was Elrohir who put those combs in Legolas' pack. The lad is not as vain as all that. And it was a score of combs, not a gross."

"Well, if I catch him fussing over his hair, I shall see him as shorn as a sheep in spring."

"Legolas comes by his tidiness honestly, Mithrandir," Elrond interjected. "Thranduil has always impressed upon him that, as Prince of Mirkwood, he is a representative of his father's realm and must therefore bear himself with great dignity. Were it not for that, Legolas would let his hair down, as Men say."

Mithrandir snorted.

"Let his _hair_ down! Let his hair _down_! Elrond, you talk about as much sense as a Troll with a toothache—one who has wrapped his jaw all about, mind you."

Elrond smiled but said nothing. Instead, he went in search of Legolas and found him in the stable currying his horse.

"I am glad, Legolas, that I find you combing your horse's mane and not your own."

Legolas looked puzzled. "Why do you say that, Elrond?"

"If I were to tell Mithrandir that I found you dressing your hair, it would give him an excuse to be smug."

Legolas chuckled. "Elrond, when has Mithrandir ever needed an excuse to be smug?"

Elrond laughed his agreement. "In any event," Legolas continued, "I have told Mithrandir that when I accompany him I needs must be tidy because _someone_ must make up for the unfortunate impression he makes upon folk. If he wants me to spend less time on my appearance, he must spend more time on his!"

Elrond shook his head in mock reproof. "Mithrandir is right. You are too much the scamp, Legolas. I think someday you really will provoke Mithrandir to cast a spell that causes your hair to fall out."

"Oh," said Legolas blithely, "I have lost my hair for worse causes—as you very well know."

Elrond _did_ know, as most of the depilatory episodes had taken place during the years when Legolas had been fostered in Rivendell. For several years it seemed as if Legolas was forever either being deprived of his hair or depriving others of theirs. Elrohir and Elladan had of course played major roles in each hirsute happening.

Elrond's thoughts were interrupted when Legolas spoke again.

"I assume that Mithrandir has agreed to my accompanying him, else you would not have sought me out."

"Yes, Legolas, he has indeed agreed—albeit most unwillingly and under the condition that you not utter a word of protest over his use of pipe weed."

"Very well. I will not utter _a_ word," said Legolas with a straight face.

Elrond looked hard at him. "Nor a phrase, nor a clause, nor a sentence, Legolas. Nor a sentence fragment," he added hastily.

"I believe the latter would have been covered under 'phrase', Elrond," Legolas said loftily.

"Nor," continued Elrond, ignoring the gibe, "are you to indicate by expression or gesture your distaste for his smoky habit. Nor are you to meddle with either his pipe or his pipe weed."

Legolas looked chagrined. "You are making my life difficult, Elrond. I shall have to be more than usually clever in my campaign against his foul habit of puffing upon that filthy pipe. No! no! I am only joking," he hastened to add as Elrond's eyebrows shot up and the elf-lord opened his mouth to chide him.

"I suggest you give over joking until you and Mithrandir have returned unharmed to Imladris," Elrond said sternly. "Your cleverness will be ill-spent on anything other than securing your safety and his. You do understand, don't you, that he means to journey to the very borders of the realm of the Dark Lord?"

"Of course, Elrond. Mithrandir has been quite forthcoming about his plans to spy out the enemy's domain."

"Not entirely forthcoming, Legolas. I suspect he means to cross into Mordor itself and not merely remain upon the border. He will not confess that this is his intention, but I hardly think he would travel all that distance and pass up the opportunity to slip into the midst of our enemies in order to gauge their strength. I remember well how, against all advice, he insisted on penetrating the devices of the Dark Lord when He dwelled in the Tower of Dol Guldor."

"And for us it proved fortunate that he did so," Legolas reminded Elrond, "for that which he learned was that which in the end allowed us to drive the Dark Lord from His stronghold."

Elrond sighed. "True, Legolas, but remember this: The Dark Lord has since grown more powerful. Hard as it was for Mithrandir to slip into and out of Dol Guldur, it will be even harder for him to enter and escape from Mordor. Again I say unto you: Save your cleverness for the task at hand."

Suddenly somber, Legolas said nothing, merely inclining his head in acknowledgment of the charge that had been laid upon his shoulders: to accompany Mithrandir to Mordor and see him home safe again.


	2. Chapter 2: A Fruitless Conversation

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _AlabrithGaiamoon, ArodieltheElfofRohan, Windwraith, CAH, Enigma Jade, Opalkitty, Kitsune, Elfinabottle, and Keji_. I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 2: A Fruitless Conversation**

The next morning Mithrandir and Legolas set out upon their journey. To Legolas' chagrin, the wizard had insisted that they travel on foot.

"On horseback we would journey more swiftly," Legolas had argued over breakfast.

"Perhaps at the outset," Mithrandir had replied, "but the nearer we draw to Mordor, the more broken the land becomes. In the end, we will go faster afoot."

"We could leave the horses at liberty to graze when they can no longer bear us. Then, on the way back, we could retrieve them."

Mithrandir helped himself a generous slab of pie before answering. "Legolas, you know as well as I that south of Dunland the cover is poor. What if someone should spy the horses loitering about in the open?"

Legolas shrugged. "What of it? Our horses are clever; they would evade capture."

"I am sure they would, Legolas, but that is not the point. Horses mean riders. If our enemies should see our horses, they would suspect the presence of spies. We should go straightaway from being trackers to being tracked."

"Oh," Legolas said lamely. He suddenly felt very young and very foolish. The wizard smiled fondly at him. "Do not be troubled, Legolas," he said in a kind voice. "You cannot be expected to possess the wisdom of the ages when you are hardly of age yourself."

Legolas felt better at once. Ever since he had encountered Mithrandir in the woods outside Rivendell, the wizard had had this knack of putting the young Elf at ease. The Elf thought back to the very first breakfast they had shared, eaten in the wizard's makeshift camp. Mithrandir had spoken in a soft voice even though, as Legolas was later to learn, the Istar was perfectly capable of speaking in a commanding tone. The wizard's gestures had likewise been slow and careful, as if he understood that any sudden movement might send the elfling fleeing into the forest. His kindliness—plus the lure of food and warmth—had soon tamed the skittish little Elf, who from that point onward had been Mithrandir's follower and, when the time came, his defender.

After Mithrandir had gently corrected Legolas, the young Elf was cheerfully resigned to the notion that he would be walking all the long distance from Rivendell to Mordor. After breakfast, then, Legolas strode patiently beside Mithrandir as they set out from Rivendell. He walked by the side of the wizard for several days. The scouts, Elladan and Elrohir among them, had done their work well, and the Elf did not feel the need to take the point. And, indeed, for the first fortnight of their journey, they saw no sign of danger.

Once they passed from Eregion into Dunland, however, Legolas altered his behavior, insisting upon going ahead to scout out the territory through which they would pass. "If there is danger," he said to the wizard, "it is right that I should encounter it first."

There was one flaw in Legolas' plan, however. While he made sure that the way forward was free of foes, it was possible for enemies to creep up from behind them. One day, as Legolas studied a footprint, trying to decide how old it was, he suddenly heard Mithrandir let loose with a series of curses, some in languages that the Elf did not recognize. Abandoning the trail, Legolas raced back toward his companion. An arrow already fitted to his bow, Legolas burst through a stand of trees—and skidded to a halt, his face a mixture of amusement and amazement. For Mithrandir stood in the middle of a pile of windfall apples. Apple fragments festooned his hat and cloak, and apple juice dripped from his nose. From nearby bushes, Legolas heard giggles. He broke into a grin. Lowering his bow, he pulled a coin from his purse and held it up until it caught the sun. "We would rather eat apples than wear them," he called to the invisible voices. "This coin for a dozen of your finest."

The giggles ceased, the bushes briefly swayed, and silence reigned. "Come, Mithrandir," Legolas said to his friend. "There is a pond a few hundred feet from here. You can bathe whilst we await our fruit."

Grumbling into his sticky beard, Mithrandir followed Legolas to the promised pool. There he handed his hat and cloak to the young Elf with very ill grace. "As you did not head off the attack of your fruitful friends, you may make yourself useful by brushing my garments," he said gruffly.

Legolas was not bothered in the least by the wizard's irascible manner. He knew Mithrandir too well to take his grumbling seriously. Setting to work with a will, he labored cheerfully for a time, and then looked up to tell the wizard that his garments were as clean—or cleaner!—than they had been when they had set out from Imladris. Instead, he gasped. He had never seen Mithrandir without his tunic, for the wizard preferred to bathe in pools far from the ones frequented by the young Elves. As he always said to Elrond, he had no desire to clamber out of the water only to find his garments knotted—or worse, stolen! Now, for the first time, Legolas saw that Mithrandir bore upon his shoulder the same sign that the Elf bore upon the inside of his forearm: a red birthmark that looked very much like the elven word for 'nine'.

Mithrandir looked up at the sound of the gasp and realized at once what the Elf was staring at. "Interesting birthmark, is it not?" he said casually.

"Mithrandir, I have got one just like it!"

"Yes, I know," replied the wizard, still maintaining an air of nonchalance.

"Mithrandir, it can hardly be a coincidence that we are both marked in the selfsame manner!"

"You think not?" Mithrandir said cheerfully, as if it were an everyday matter for two folk, unrelated by blood, to share such an unlikely mark.

"Well, well," spluttered Legolas, "it must _mean_ something! Oh!' he added suddenly. "Aragorn has got one, too!"

Legolas had known about Aragorn's birthmark for years, but when the Elf had first noticed it he had been very young, and with the innocence of youth, he had accepted matter-of-factly all sorts of extraordinary events, including the remarkable coincidence of the shared mark. Since then he had forgotten about it, as one tends to do when one has become accustomed to someone or something. Now, however, he would never look upon his and Aragorn's shared birthmark with the same complacency. Two folk sharing such a mark was amazing; three folk, well, that defied all laws of logic and arithmetic. Suddenly he had a notion: the laws of probability having already been broken, was it possible that there were other folk who bore this mark upon their bodies?

"Mithrandir," he asked excitedly, "are there any others who are marked in this fashion?"

"Ye-es," said Mithrandir, a little reluctant to share what he knew. He feared lest the Elf reach premature conclusions about matters that were best left for the future. "I think that two, possibly three, folk may bear this mark—but it is a matter of little import."

"Little import!? Mithrandir, I possess this birthmark, and so do you and Aragorn. You say two or three others may as well. That makes five or perhaps six, all bearing the same mark. How could such an extraordinary coincidence be of little import?"

"As you say, Legolas, it is a coincidence. And a coincidence, as I am sure Erestor has taught you, is nothing but a chance concatenation of two otherwise unrelated events or objects."

"You can't _know_ that it is a coincidence."

"My dear boy, there are a great many things I do not know. Yet consider: I may not know that it _is_ a coincidence, but you do not know that it is _not_."

While Legolas was puzzling over how to reply to this last statement, he and Mithrandir heard the sounds of approaching children. Mithrandir, who was now on the bank toweling himself with his cloak, hastily pulled on his breeches while Legolas strode toward the sounds, which suddenly stopped when the Elf drew too near to the shy Dunlending youngsters. "You needn't show yourselves if you do not wish," he called to reassure them. "Push the apples into the open, and I will leave the coin where you may retrieve it after we are gone."

In reply, someone used a stick to push a basket out from behind a bush. In it lay a dozen unblemished apples. Legolas carried the basket to his pack and tucked the apples within. Then he put a coin in the bottom of the basket and placed it back beside the bush. As he walked away, he heard a rustling sound. When he looked back, the basket was gone.

By now, Mithrandir was fully dressed, and he insisted that they walk on. He refused all efforts to draw him out on the subject of birthmarks. In his own mind, however, he ruminated upon the subject.

'I imagine', he said to himself, 'that when all is said and done, nine folk in all will sport this mark—else why should it delineate that number? Whether all the others destined to be so marked have yet been born, I cannot guess. I did not altogether lie to my young friend just now when I said that I did not know all! This much I do know, however: I, an Istar, bear this mark, as does one Ranger, one Elf, a Dwarf, and a Hobbit. I know that one of Denethor's sons bears the mark as well. Pity I did not get a better look, for I could not make out whether it was Boromir or Faramir who was being bathed by that nursemaid. I should like to think it was Faramir, but it is not up to me to select the chosen ones. That leaves three whose identities I cannot guess at. But no doubt in the fullness of time I shall come to know the others—as well as the reason for our having been marked in the first place. Still, I cannot help but suspect that it will have something to do with Frodo and the ring he inherited from Bilbo. Else it would be incomprehensible that a plain-living Perian should share a mark with wizard and warrior'.

Mithrandir ran over in his mind all he knew about each of the folk who he knew or suspected to have been marked by the number nine. He smiled a little as he thought of the Dwarf. 'How horrified Legolas will be', he chortled to himself, 'when he learns that he has something in common with a Dwarf!' Mithrandir smiled even more broadly as he imagined the dismay that would cross the Elf's face, the shudder that would rack his body. "A Dwarf?" he could hear the Elf cry. "Not a Dwarf!"

"What about a Dwarf, Mithrandir?" came the voice of Legolas. Mithrandir realized with a start that he had been speaking aloud.

"I was merely thinking, Legolas," the wizard said hastily, "that it is past time that I pay a visit to Erebor, to see how King Dain is getting on. Would you like to accompany me?" he added slyly, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"I should say not!" exclaimed Legolas indignantly. Mithrandir smiled and said no more. 'Very well, Laiqua', he thought to himself. 'But doubtless the time will come when you find yourself in the company of a Dwarf, namely, one Gimli son of Glóin. If you don't, then I am a Hobbit!' And amusing himself with such thoughts, Mithrandir cheerfully strode on by the side of his young friend.


	3. Chapter 3: Elf in Boots

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Enigma Jade, Joee, Fluffy's fangirls, Windwraith, CAH, Opalkitty, and MCross._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 3: Elf in Boots**

Several more days passed without any sign of Legolas's "fruitful friends," as Mithrandir insisted on calling them. Then, as the Elf and the wizard sat in camp one night, a branch suddenly detached itself from a bush and crept toward them. Mithrandir, as was his custom after the evening meal, had been smoking a pipe and sending smoke creatures to hover over the head of Legolas, who was doing his best to ignore them. Stubbornly he occupied himself in polishing a knife that had already been buffed to a brightness that rivaled the light of the full moon that shone down upon them.

"Legolas," Mithrandir muttered from around his pipe stem, "I believe that your love of plants and wild creatures is once again about to bear fruit, so to speak."

"Ha ha," Legolas said dryly. He put down his knife, drew another coin from his pouch, and tossed it at the feet of the bush. He expected that the coin would be taken up hastily and that the bush would retreat, leaving behind a trove of nuts or fruit. Instead, the bush remained quite still, the coin lying untouched upon the ground.

Mithrandir had been smiling, the lines crinkling about his eyes in the pattern so familiar to Legolas, but now he grew solemn. "I have never known a Dunlending child to hesitate at the sight of a coin. You had better go see what that bush wants."

Legolas nodded. He unbuckled his belt, leaving even the sheath of his knife behind, and walked slowly toward the visitor. When he was a meter away, he sat cross-legged upon the ground, his hands in his laps, palms upward. The bush spoke.

"Master, you are being tracked."

"Are we?" Legolas said calmly.

"Aye, and by nasty creatures, too. They are Goblins come down from the mountains. They are many in number."

"How many?"

"Thrice the number of days in a turning of the moon."

"Are they well led?"

"They came down from the mountain and picked up your path straightaway, as if they knew where to find it. And, Master, they travel swiftly. Only when the sun is at its height do they pause to rest. Other than that, they travel both by day and by night. I think they know who it is they track."

Legolas nodded his understanding. "I thank you, Master Bush."

At these words, a giggle came from behind the bough. Then, to Legolas's delight, a face peaked out. It was a grubby face—'twice as dirty as Estel ever was', Legolas thought to himself—but the smile on the face bespoke goodness and well-intended curiosity. Legolas nodded toward the coin. "Take it, Master Bush."

"Nay, Master Elf. You left a coin for the apples worth three times their value."

"Take it nonetheless. It is a gift."

The child hesitated, and Legolas smiled at him in encouragement. Slowly the child reached for the coin and closed his hand upon it. He looked up at the Elf. "I did not come for a reward," he whispered, a trace of defiance in his voice. 'He knows', Legolas thought sadly to himself, 'how little his folk are regarded outside the borders of their impoverished lands'.

"Master Bush," said the Elf, "do you know ought of the descendants of Hugh the Farmer, whose touch would turn a withered vine green?"

"Aye, I do. No family is more greatly esteemed in this land."

"Go to them. Tell them that Legolas of Mirkwood, known to them upon a time as Anomen, foster-son of Elrond, sends them a stout-hearted youth whom they would do well to take into their service. Proffer them that coin in earnest of what you say. It will be the fee for your apprenticeship."

The boy's eyes grew wide. Legolas arose and offered the lad his hand, pulling him to his feet.

"And tell your companions that the next time I or my companion passes through this land, they should not squander apples as missiles."

The boy grinned. Legolas released his hand and clasped him upon the shoulder. "Stay well, Master Bush."

"And you, Master Elf." The boy stepped back, bowed, and walked briskly from the clearing. He held his shoulders straight. Legolas smiled briefly at the sight, but then, all seriousness, he returned to Mithrandir.

"We must break camp at once," he said to the wizard.

"Ah, I rather thought that would be the outcome of the interview," Mithrandir said calmly, tapping his pipe bowl upon the earth and then shoving the pipe into his bag. "What sort of peril do we face?"

"Well nigh one-hundred Orcs."

"Come down from their lairs in the Misty Mountains?"

"Aye, and there may be an intelligence behind their movements."

"Sauron, no doubt."

Legolas shrugged. They had reached the southernmost portion of Dunland, nigh unto the Gap of Rohan but also, to Legolas's way of thinking, much too close to that portion of Fangorn Forest where Orthanc was situated within the ring of Isengard. If Orcs came swarming down from the Misty Mountains, it seemed to him that it was more likely Saruman's doing than Sauron's, whose lands were still distant. Yet he knew that it would do no good to suggest this to Mithrandir. The wizard's next words, however, almost broke Legolas's resolve to avoid arguing over the matter.

"Well," Mithrandir was saying briskly, "if we are being followed by Orcs, we have got to lose them before we venture onto the Plains of Rohan, where there is no cover for anything larger than a hare. The best thing to do would be to shelter at Isengard for a spell."

'For a spell?' thought Legolas bitterly. "Aye, for a spell to be cast, like as not—and on us!' Aloud, however, he tried to state his objections in as neutral a tone as possible. "Mithrandir," he opined, "we should be going miles out of our way if we journeyed to Isengard."

"Nonsense, my lad. We would still be heading south."

"East," corrected Legolas.

"Southeast," rejoined the wizard.

Legolas opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly closed it. He seized Mithrandir's cloak and leaped for cover, pulling his friend after him.

"What—" began the wizard.

"Hush!" the Elf hissed. Mithrandir fell silent. Soon he could hear it, too: the tramp of dozens of heavily shod feet—distant but not distant enough.

"No time for a retreat to Isengard," Legolas whispered. "Mithrandir, against such a large company, you must use your staff."

Mithrandir looked troubled. "I am not sure that I should, Legolas. In fact, I am not even sure that I _can_."

Legolas was bewildered. "Why ever not?"

"My son, I am a Maia, not a Vala. I am not sure how many spells I am permitted."

"Permitted?" repeated Legolas.

"Yes. I do not know for a fact that I have an unlimited number of spells, at least not of the major sort. I may only be allowed a certain number for the totality of my stay in Middle-earth. Or I may only be allowed a certain number during any given period of time—one a week, perhaps, or one a fortnight. You know that I have always been sparing of my magic, and that is one of the reasons. I used a blasting spell two months back to escape those Orcs who cornered me in the Pass of Caradhras. I am very much afraid to repeat the performance so soon after the event. If I fail, we may be worse off than if we tried some other avenue."

"Very well, then," said Legolas, taking a deep breath. "We shall have to hit upon that other avenue, shan't we? Lend me your boots."

"My boots?"

"They make deeper marks than my shoes, and they are in the style of a Man, not an Elf. Men move more slowly than Elves. The Orcs know this. We have been traveling together. If the Orcs see only one set of tracks, and those the Man's, they will assume that the Elf has gone on ahead to scout out the trail. They will continue to follow the Man, believing that by doing so they must perforce be following the Elf as well."

"Actually," Mithrandir said thoughtfully, "it is possible that they do not even know that they have been following both an Elf and a Man. You scarce leave a trace that could be descried by a Ranger, let alone an Orc."

"Even better," said Legolas, "for then without a doubt they shall not trouble themselves to look for any trail other than the Man's."

"Which shall in fact be your trail. What will I be doing in the meanwhile?"

"Hiding in yonder tree. If you walk upon those stones, you should be able to reach it without leaving a trace. I shall remain nearby until I am certain that they are falling for the ruse. Then I shall lead them far from here until I am able to give them the slip at a river ford. They will think I have made the passage and shall look fruitlessly for me on the other side. Meanwhile, I shall circle back and rejoin you."

Nodding agreement, Mithrandir pulled off his boots and handed them to Legolas. Then, in his stocking feet, he walked gingerly over to the tree that Legolas had pointed out. Thrusting his staff into his belt, he pulled himself arm over arm into the tree, demonstrating, as usual, a strength that belied his agéd appearance. Legolas, meanwhile, strode to the tree line east of the clearing, being careful to leave clear tracks. Once under cover, he turned to keep watch over the tree in which Mithrandir was now hidden.

Shortly after Elf and wizard had gotten into position, the Orcs came shambling into the clearing. They began to pass by the tree, but then, suddenly, one of the smaller Orcs stumbled with fatigue and fell. Lifting his face from the dirt, he began to yowl, directing his rage at a larger Orc who seemed to be the leader of the band.

"I ain't goin' another step widout no rest!" he howled at the Orc chieftain. At once the larger Orc drew his scimitar. Among Orcs, it was generally the rule that a mouth opened in protest would upon the instant close in death. In this case, however, the smaller Orc was saved by his companions, who, exhausted as he, immediately threw themselves upon the ground. They did not do so out of any concern for their companion, but without meaning to they created a blockade around him. The chieftain, like most Goblin leaders, did not possess genuine courage. He had risen to his rank by his willingness to bully the small and weak, and he took care never to take on more than one foe at a time. He therefore contented himself with aiming a savage kick at a runt Orc on the outskirts of the huddle who lacked the spirit and the strength to strike back.

Elves, unlike Men, do not sweat; otherwise Legolas would have been perspiring now. Orcs lay thickly at the very base of the tree in which Mithrandir was hidden. Orcs can only be described as one-dimensional creatures, not inclined to raise their eyes heavenward; but Legolas worried over what would happen if a branch or bit of bark was dislodged and fell upon one of the Goblins, prompting him to look up. Mithrandir had climbed as high as he dared, but a lucky glance might still lead to his discovery if one of the less stupid Orcs realized that a grey robe did not belong in a tree.

It was not a falling branch, however, that finally caught the attention of the Orcs. One of the creatures, gaping, arose to make water. As he fumbled at his garments, he suddenly let out a howl and clutched at his vitals. The other Orcs, thinking he had suffered a wardrobe malfunction, hooted and jeered at him.

"Caught his bits in his britches," guffawed one.

"Did—not," gasped the victim, who, as he was bent over double, was having great difficulty breathing, let alone speaking.

Legolas, too, was having difficulty breathing, but in his case it was because he was trying to stifle his own laughter. He knew the source of the Orc's ailment, and he suspected that the other Orcs would soon discover it as well.

Sure enough, the entire band of Orcs was suddenly showered with missiles—and not mushy apples, either, but rocks. Some of them were as large as apples, though. These well-aimed stones rained in from three sides. Only from the east, the direction in which Legolas wished to lead the Orcs, did no missiles fly.

Howling, the Orcs lumbered to their feet and lurched eastward, toward the Misty Mountains. As they fled, they flailed their arms about in a futile attempt to fend off the stones that rained down upon them. Their chieftain seized this as an opportunity to try to reestablish his standing. "Ye see," he gloated, "what comes of stopping without orders. Next time you'll listen to me and not find yerselves in such a fix." These words he underscored by kicking his subalterns and hitting at them with the flat of his scimitar. Too demoralized to fight back, the Orc underlings fell back into their ranks. "Move on! Move on!" bellowed the chieftain. "Here's the trail, clear enough. Follow it, you maggots!"

This trail that the Orcs were now scrambling after was growing longer by the minute. As soon as Legolas saw the Orcs stampeding toward him, he abandoned his hiding place and loped eastward, leaving in his wake a set of exceptionally clear marks. He meant to lead the Orcs back toward their lairs, and he suspected that, when he finally gave them the slip, it would take a strong-willed leader to turn them toward the west again. In that hope, he ran swiftly toward the Misty Mountains.


	4. Chapter 4: An Unexpected Party

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _CAH and Joee._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 4: An Unexpected Party**

Back in the clearing, Mithrandir waited until the last Orc footfall had faded away before climbing down from his tree and settling himself comfortably at its base. Judging from the giggles and rustling noises, the wizard was still surrounded, but he did not fear being pelted by either rocks or apples. Calmly, he took out his pipe and began to puff vigorously. Soon he had filled the clearing with smoky creatures, and the giggles were replaced with "oohs" and "ahs." Pleased with the results of his vaporous efforts, Mithrandir abandoned any pretense of solemnity and smiled at his hidden audience. "I do believe," he chuckled, "that these younglings are every bit as delighted by this simple show as a passel of Periannath are by my far more elaborate firework displays."

In the end, however, it was the wizard who was amazed and awed. A little face peeped out cautiously from around a tree. "Ah," murmured the Istar, for Dunlending children were notoriously shy. A second face popped out from behind a shrub. "Ooh," breathed Gandalf, trying not to sound as if he were squealing. He smiled encouragingly at the two little ones, and suddenly the faces of urchins filled every bush. Mithrandir's own face began to ache from smiling, but he would not let his expression falter. Finally, almost past hope, one of the smallest of the children stepped hesitantly from cover. He was either exceptionally brave or too young to be as fearful as the others. Mithrandir conjured up the finest stallion in his smoky repertoire and sent it trotting toward the youngster. Wonderingly, the child put up his hand, and in smoky strands the steed slipped between his fingers, rematerializing on the other side of his hand. The young one laughed aloud, and the clearing was immediately filled with children. The stallion broke into a gallop, and cheering urchins raced round and round after it until at last it dissipated into tendrils of smoke. Then the children turned expectantly toward Mithrandir, who obliged them by puffing forth a dragon. "The dragon breathes dragons," shouted one daring lad, thereby confirming what the wizard had long suspected: that the Dunlendings had nicknamed him after those fire-breathing beasts. He had thought he had heard the word muttered from bushes as he had passed through Dunland on his many journeys. It had never before been pronounced in such tones of friendship, however.

Mithrandir spent several pleasant hours entertaining the children. At last, though, he sighed. "I am sorry, my children, but I seem to have smoked through a journey's worth of pipe weed."

"My Da grows pipe weed," volunteered a boy. "He would sell you some."

"Excellent!" Mithrandir pulled out a coin. The child shook his head.

"That coin is too large. We shan't be able to change it. Have you no smaller coin?"

Mithrandir shook his head. "I haven't, but no matter. My friend and I ought to restock, for our supply of victuals has been much reduced. Fill out the balance with such foodstuffs as your folk are willing to sell."

It was true that the travelers had eaten such fresh food as they had carried at the outset of their journey, but they were well provided with dried provisions. Mithrandir had also neglected to mention that Legolas was perfectly capable of replenishing their food stocks through hunting. Still, strictly speaking, the wizard was not telling a lie when he said their supply of victuals had been "reduced." Mainly, however, he was desirous of obtaining more pipe weed so that he might continue to indulge the children. If that meant purchasing food beyond their needs, then so be it.

As Mithrandir had expected, when the child and his companions returned, they bore with them not only the pipe weed but also more food than would fit into either the wizard's or the Elf's pack. "Oh, dear," said the wizard, pretending to be surprised and perplexed as he surveyed the cheese, bread, apples, and dried meat that the urchins laid out before him. "I have miscalculated how much that coin would purchase. My friend and I won't be able to carry all of this provender. Well, it would be a shame to let it go to waste. I shall eat some of it straightaway, and I should be very grateful if you would join me."

Children are always hungry, and Dunlending children especially so. In short order, then, Mithrandir was joined in an impromptu picnic by gleeful youngsters who were both well-entertained and well-fed. He himself ate little, for he was content to puff upon his pipe and watch the antics of children who, however briefly, were carefree. For this interlude would indeed be brief, the wizard thought sadly. Mithrandir knew that many of the youngsters would never reach adulthood. The harvest had been good this year, but there was no telling what the next year might bring. Famines struck Dunland frequently, and in a famine, the young were among the first to die. If hunger did not kill them outright, then disease would take them. If they survived both hunger and disease, there was yet a third peril to reckon with. Driven by want, some clans would raid the settlements of other clans. Even if children were not targeted outright in such raids, they might still be cut down in the melee or perish in burning huts. If they survived, they often died soon thereafter of exposure. In other cases, the raiders would carry off not only such foodstuffs as they could find but also anything worth selling—and as slaves children had value. One could always find willing buyers amongst roving Southron traders who would drag their captives off to Harad, where the children would suffer either short, miserable lives or long, equally miserable ones. Mithrandir thought that the former would be preferable to the latter.

And what of those who survived to inherit the hardscrabble farmsteads of their fathers? Their lot would be better than that of a slave, but not by much. The early promise of childhood would shrivel into a desperate, grasping adulthood. Mithrandir had seen it as he passed through their settlements. Always there were the ragged, hollow-faced men and women who peered suspiciously out at him from the doorways of their dark, noisome huts. Behind them, hidden in the darkness, would be their equally ragged children, the ones who, like the children before him, wanted only food and encouragement to be as lively as any youngster raised in Elrond's household. But they would get neither. This one day, when they were smiled upon by a wizard, was unlike any other that they would ever experience: a respite from the harshness of their lives, but only that—a respite.

Mithrandir's gloomy meditation abruptly ended when he felt a soft pressure upon his knee. His eyes came back into focus, and he saw that a little girl, no older that five, had crept near and laid her tiny hand upon his knee. Crouching, she regarded him gravely. Slowly, Mithrandir raised his pipe to his mouth and breathed out a tiny unicorn, which pranced delicately about the child's hand. A trace of a smile creased her face, and it remained after the unicorn dissolved into wisps of vapor. To Mithrandir's astonishment and delight, the little girl climbed over his knee and settled into his lap, where she commenced to play with his beard. 'Well', the wizard thought to himself, 'this hasn't happened to me in several centuries. No, indeed, not since Legolas was of a size with this one and adopted me as a sort of grandfather. Ah', he sighed pensively, 'that was a special time'.

Mithrandir looked tenderly at the child, who was soon joined by two little boys who perched upon his knees. His legs were falling asleep, and he knew that he would suffer dreadful spasm when they began to come back to life, but he didn't care. 'I had forgotten', he murmured to himself, 'what a wonderful feeling it is to be trusted by a child. My labors had completely driven it from my mind'.

While Mithrandir was rediscovering the pleasures of being a 'grandfather', his 'grandson' was bringing considerably less pleasure to the Orcs who hunted him. To weary his foes, Legolas led them through fen and briar. He moved at a rapid pace, too, which the Orcs were hard put to match. Further and further ahead the Elf drew until he came to a river where he judged that he might give his pursuers the slip. Fording the river, he made sure to leave obvious the point at which he came out again on the other side. From that spot he went on a little further, until he reached a rocky patch where he judged it would seem natural for the Orcs to lose the trail. There Legolas removed Mithrandir's boots. He crammed them into his pack and pulled on his own lighter footgear. Next he retraced his steps to the river, this time making sure not to leave any marks. When he regained the channel, he did not at once return to the western bank but instead hid himself in a thicket. The Elf was resolved to take a toll of Orcs before slipping away to rejoin Mithrandir.

Bow in hand, Legolas waited patiently until the Orcs came marching down to the river. The creatures shuddered at the feel of the cold, clear water upon their feet, but their leader forced them onward. "Ye be scum, but I reckon ye won't melt," he jeered, prodding at the nearest Orc with his scimitar. Whining, the Orcs lurched forward. Legolas almost regretted ambushing such pathetic creatures, but he reminded himself that this large band of rabble had felt no compunctions against seeking the death of two lightly armed travelers. Putting pity aside, he drew his bow taut. 'First I shall bring down their chieftain', he said to himself. 'That will throw the column into disarray, and I shall be able to pick off quite a few before they have the wit to retreat'.

His plan worked as expected. His first arrow pierced the throat of the chieftain, who staggered soundlessly forward a few paces before collapsing face first into the water. Not realizing that he had been felled by a missile, the other Orcs stood stupidly about the body, staring down at the corpse and ignorant of their danger. Legolas shot several who stood at the edges of this scrum. Each time he aimed for the neck, thus depriving his victims of speech. The other Orcs, with their backs turned to their slain companions, did not even know that they had fallen.

At length, however, one of the Goblins squawked and clutched at his neck before he collapsed, in doing so drawing the attention of his fellows.

"'Ere now, 'e's got an arrow in 'is neck," one of his companions noted wisely. A second later this highly observant Orc was himself felled by a missile, and panic ensued, the larger Goblins trampling the smaller ones in their haste to retreat to the western shore.

Legolas, meanwhile, slipped downstream, keeping to cover until he had passed beyond a bend in a river and could cross back to the western bank without being spotted. Giving the surviving Orcs a wide berth, he began the trek back to the clearing where Mithrandir awaited him. When he reached the edge of that glade, he found his friend still besieged by children. Some sat nearby nibbling at the remnants of the feast. Others played upon the ground with simple toys that they had devised upon the spot out of twigs and leaves. The two little boys remained perched upon the wizard's knees, and the little girl, still in the wizard's lap, was now examining his pointed hat, holding it upside down and peering into it as if she expected to find something hidden therein—a rabbit, perhaps, or a dove.

Legolas eased himself down upon his haunches and sat enjoying the peaceful scene. Like Mithrandir, he was reminded of bygone days. 'I used to be the one sitting in Mithrandir's lap playing with his hat', he thought wistfully. 'Is it possible that he remembers', he mused. 'Don't be silly', he quickly scolded himself. 'Mithrandir is concerned with much more important matters than such trifles. Still, he does look remarkably content, more so than I remember seeing him in a long time. I wonder….'

Occupying himself with such thoughts, Legolas observed the scene for a little while longer before deciding that they really ought to move on. The Orcs having been decoyed away, the two of them ought to make for the Gap of Rohan whilst the way remained safe. Softly he arose and slowly he stepped into the clearing. Unfortunately, in spite of his careful movements, the children scattered at the sight of him. Apparently only the bravest of Dunlending children were willing to risk an interview with an Elf.

"What do you mean by frightening them off like that?" Mithrandir said indignantly. Then the wizard caught himself. "It is best we remain on good, or at least not bad, terms with their parents," he harrumphed. "We don't want the younglings scampering back to their villages with tales of being threatened by fearsome warrior-elves. Such a state of affairs might cause difficulties for us on the return journey."

"I am sorry, Mithrandir," said Legolas meekly, hiding a grin. So the old codger had been indulging his sentimental side after all. Legolas tucked away that information for future use. For now, though, he helped the wizard to his feet. As Mithrandir had expected, his legs pained him dreadfully when circulation began to return to them. With Legolas supporting him, he stomped about the clearing a few times. Finally, his legs fully recovered, he joined Legolas in packing the remaining foodstuffs—a very small item, you may be sure! Then, shouldering their packs, Elf and Istar resumed their trek south.

Miles away, on the western edge of Fangorn forest, a panting messenger stood before a figure clothed in white. "What do you mean, they got away?" snarled the white-robed wizard—for it was indeed Saruman. "How could two elude so many?"

"Tricksy Elveses," stammered the Orc runner. "Tricksy Elveses, that's wot it were." The Goblin trembled so hard that he could hardly stand, for Saruman was well known for his peremptory executions of messengers who brought ill news. This time, however, Saruman was so perplexed by his latest failure to slay Legolas that he forgot all about the runner, who slunk away as soon as he saw his master distracted. Legolas—that ungrateful brat—remained alive. As for that fool Mithrandir, he still possessed a secret that for some unaccountable reason, and in spite of his professed respect for the master of his order, he would not disclose to him. Saruman had instructed the Orcs to capture Mithrandir, bind and blindfold him, and bring him to Orthanc, where in the dungeon Haradhrim expert in torture awaited him. Saruman had been in hopes that where persuasion had failed pain might avail. Yet once again the grey wizard had slipped like smoke through his fingers. In frustration, Saruman brought his staff down upon the ground so hard that it was a wonder that it did not shatter. Uttering oaths in the Black Tongue, he turned his steps toward Isengard. "This is not over, Mithrandir," he swore. "Someday I shall have you in my power. And I believe that that day shall be sooner rather than later. Your pet Elf will not always be able to protect you. And when he cannot, you are mine!"


	5. Chapter 5: A Bottle Is Uncorked

**Thanks to the following reviewers: Enigma Jade _and CAH._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 5: A Bottle Is Uncorked **

The Rohirrim had always vigorously guarded the Pass of Rohan, and it seemed that lately their vigilance had been intensified. The two travelers had hardly ventured five miles into the territory of the Horse-masters before Legolas reported that he could make out the sounds of hoof beats.

"Are you sure, Legolas?" said Mithrandir.

All he got in reply was a withering look.

"To be sure, Legolas," the wizard said hastily. "If you say you hear horses, then there must be some hereabouts." To himself he added, 'That piercing stare of his he inherited from Thranduil. His smile, now, for that he can thank his mother'.

In a little while, Mithrandir declared that he, too, could hear horses. At once, however, Legolas announced that he could _see_ them. Mithrandir glared at his young friend. 'Show-off', he fumed to himself.

Soon, though, the wizard had other matters to preoccupy him than the playfulness of his companion. A large band of warriors galloped into view, spears lowered and making straight for the travelers. "Cover your ears, Legolas," Mithrandir said hastily. It might be better if the Rohirrim did not know straightaway that the wizard's companion was an Elf. The Riders clung to certain superstitions concerning Galadriel and the folk of Lothlórien, and Mithrandir feared that they would mistake his companion for one of the Galadhrim. Legolas did as Mithrandir bade. For his own part, however, the wizard uncovered his head so that the Men might see him clearly.

This gesture proved a good own, for at the head of the horsemen rode Théodred son of Théoden. Théodred had always been fond of Mithrandir, even of late when the Rohirrim were growing suspicious of outsiders. Recognizing the wizard, he gestured to his fellows that they should lower their spears. Reining back his horse to a trot, he shouted greetings. "Gandalf, my friend, why do you persist footing it when again and again I have offered you the use of a horse?"

"You have not yet offered me the right one, Théodred" Mithrandir called back, "but someday I shall take you up on your offer. You will be sorry then, for I am an excellent judge of horseflesh and will deprive you of one of your finest steeds."

Laughing at the notion that the wizard might know anything of horses, the Man pulled up his own mount and leaped from the saddle. He clasped Mithrandir on the shoulder. Then, turning to Legolas, he looked the Elf up and down, frankly appraising him. "Here's a pretty lad you travel with. Is he old enough to stray from his mother's knee?"

Legolas kept his countenance with some effort. Men ever underestimated his age. He was used to that. He was still bothered, however, when Men called him "pretty" because he knew almost invariably it was meant as a challenge rather than as a compliment. Mithrandir had confirmed this observation. "You must understand, Legolas," the wizard had once said, "that whenever two Men meet, they must engage in a pissing match."

"A pissing match?"

"So to speak. The one who can piss the farthest—or shoot the farthest or ride the fastest—may claim dominance over the other. It is how Men establish their pecking order."

So Théodred's words were not innocent ones but rather in the nature of a test or a dare. How, Legolas wondered, was he to respond in a fashion that would maintain his own honor without angering the Man and thus putting their mission—and mayhap their lives—in danger?

Suddenly the Elf whipped an arrow from his quiver, and before anyone had time to react he had shot it straight up into the sky. Seconds later, a goose fell at the Man's feet.

"It is an ill guest," Legolas deadpanned, "who does not present a gift to his host."

Théodred looked down at the goose and then at Legolas. Then he looked up at the sky, but he could not descry the invisible flock passing over. He turned to Mithrandir. "Gandalf," he said, "I think that there is more to this lad than meets the eye."

Mithrandir smiled. "Uncover your head, Legolas," he instructed.

Gladly the Elf pushed back his hood. "One of the Galadhrim," a Rider exclaimed, and the travelers heard the rasp of metal as swords were drawn.

"Not one of the Galadhrim," Mithrandir said calmly. "As there are many nations among Men, so, too, among the Elves."

"Even if he were one of the Galadhrim," declared Théodred, "I should honor and welcome him. Not only is he a companion of Mithrandir, but it seems respect is due him in his own right." He reached down and picked up the goose, holding it up for all to see. "I have a mind for roast goose," he laughed. "Let us make camp. Gamling, see that a shelter is erected for our friends."

Gamling, who had a friendly, open face, assigned the task to Hama, a Rider who, like Gamling, was well-disposed to the strangers, and that evening, after feasting upon roast goose, the travelers found themselves ensconced in a well-appointed shelter. Mithrandir suspected that Hama would sleep wrapped in his cloak that night, but Hama brushed off his protests.

"Nay, Master Gandalf, I will be quite comfortable. Indeed, nothing could detract from my happiness this night."

"When I last visited Edoras," said Mithrandir shrewdly, "you had but lately been espoused. I warrant that has something to do with your present state of joyfulness."

"Oh, Master Gandalf," enthused the Man. "Do you recall that you bestowed a blessing upon me and mine that night? Well, my Lord, that blessing has born fruit—as has my wife! Se'en night ago she was delivered of a son—a fine, healthy son. Haleth we have called him."

"Haleth son of Hama," smiled Mithrandir. "The name has a fine sound to it. I predict that Haleth son of Hama shall prove to be brave and will bring honor to the name he bears, his own and his father's."

Hama beamed and bade them a good rest.

"Of course," Mithrandir said sadly after the Man had departed, "I did not say that the father should live to know of it."

Mithrandir looked so sorrowful that Legolas again thought wistfully of the days when he could freely show affection to the wizard. 'If I were an elfling, right now I should throw my arms about him and squeeze as hard as I could. He would gasp that he couldn't breathe, which was of course nonsense but a necessary part of the game. Then he would threaten me with some meaningless string of words, a spell that would make me bald, he would say. I would pretend to be frightened and run off, but behind me, I would hear him chuckling'.

Legolas was smiling as he reminisced, and suddenly he realized that Mithrandir was staring at him suspiciously.

"What makes you grin so?" demanded the wizard.

"I was remembering."

"Remembering what?"

"Remembering the time when I was an elfling."

"Well, don't!"

"Why ever not?"

"Because you are making me nervous. Don't forget that I, too, can remember the time when you were an elfling."

Legolas grinned all the more.

"Oh, I remember alright," continued the wizard. "Why, I remember how you would throw your arms about me and squeeze as hard as you could until I would gasp that I couldn't breathe." Mithrandir smiled a little. "That was of course nonsense," the wizard went on, "but it was a necessary part of the game. Then I would threaten you with a spell. It was a meaningless string of words, really, but I would tell you that it would make you bald. That never failed to do the trick. Oh, yes! You always took fright and ran off. Always left me chuckling, that did." Here the wizard did chuckle.

'Excellent!' thought Legolas. 'It is not necessary that I play the scamp, only that he remember that I once did!'

Both Elf and wizard fell to reminiscing in earnest.

"Do you recall," asked Legolas, "the time Elladan and Elrohir and I tricked Erestor and Glorfindel into kissing one another, and you instructed them to get back at us by gluing beaks to our faces? You put a sleeping spell on us so that they could do it, didn't you?"

Gandalf laughed so loudly that the Riders on guard exchanged puzzled looks. "I have never forgotten, Legolas. The looks on your faces when I told you I could not use my magic to remove those beaks—ah, I wish I could have bottled them, to bring out whenever I need cheering!" Suddenly, the wizard paused, a surprised look upon his face. "Why, I have bottled them, haven't I? Now, why did I never think of that?"

"Think of what, Mithrandir?"

"Memory. It's a sort of bottle, isn't it? A receptacle wherein we lay up our past. Do you know, Legolas, whenever I feel sad, I believe I shall uncork the bottle in which I have stored ever so many memories—your days as a scamp chief among them!"

"Perhaps I shall contrive to provide you with a few more, my friend."

"Scamp!"

"I believe I just did."

Pretending to grumble, Mithrandir lay down and pulled his blanket to his chin. "Mind you don't tamper with my pipe weed," he huffed.

"I shall be ever so much more original than _that_, Mithrandir," Legolas promised as he wrapped himself in his own blanket.

"Scamp," came the reply, softer this time.

That night Legolas and Mithrandir slept unusually well. The extra bedding eased their path to sleep, but the images and sensations that flowed from a newly uncorked bottle of memories are what mainly swept them deep into dreams that rejuvenated them both. Yet although Elf and wizard drew freely upon their memories that night, when they awoke in the morning they had as many memories tucked away as before. For a noteworthy feature of one's mind is that it resembles a cornucopia: no matter how many memories one draws forth, a myriad remain. This would no doubt prove fortunate for our travelers. They had journeyed far, but a long road still lay before them, and one strewn with many perils. Yet even should their strength fail, their trove of memories would remain undiminished and be a source of light for them in dark places, when all other lights went out.


	6. Chapter 6: A Marriage Proposal

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Opal Kitty, Windwraith, Keji, K'lara, Elfinabottle, A Whisper in the Wind, Joee, The Inebriated Lion-Minion,_ and_ CAH._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you. **

**Chapter 6: A Marriage Proposal**

The next morning Théodred invited the travelers to break fast with him, and Mithrandir used the opportunity to gather news about Rohan and its people.

"Your father Théoden, how fares he, Théodred?" he asked as he spooned porridge into his bowl.

"He begins to show his age, but I suppose that is only natural. I wish, though…." Here the Rider hesitated.

"What is it you wish, Théodred?"

"I wish he would not listen so much to the counsels of that wretch Gríma. Wormtongue I name him, for he writhes like an eel. I am sure he does not have my father's interests at heart."

Muttering broke out amongst the nearest Riders, and Mithrandir could tell that Théodred's sentiments were shared. Good. It had been a long time since Mithrandir had trusted the words of the Man who rode post between Edoras and Orthanc. Yet Saruman always seemed to welcome the visits of Gríma Wormtongue. Mithrandir wondered what the white wizard saw in the obsequious human.

"And how is your cousin Éomer?" asked Mithrandir.

Théodred grimaced a little. "You may consider yourself fortunate that you encountered me instead of him. He grows grim and unsmiling. He might have taken you for spies and acted accordingly."

"You can hardly blame him if he views the world with suspicion," Mithrandir pointed out.

"True," Théodred said sadly. "My father yet lives, whilst his was slain by Orcs when he was only a child. His mother died soon after, from grief, my father tells me. He has reason to be grim."

"And Éowyn?"

Théodred smiled fondly. "She is restless, that one."

"She has ever been so," Mithrandir observed. "I remember one time I was visiting Edoras, that she stole a horse from the stable and rode to Helm's Deep." The wizard chuckled. "How flummoxed the guard must have been when she galloped up the causeway and announced that she had come to inspect the fortress."

Théodred chuckled as well. "I remember the uproar the household was thrown into when she was discovered missing. But do you know," he added thoughtfully, "that when she returned, she had some very sensible things to say about the state of the Hornburg and its defenses. My father even acted upon some of her advice. He never told her, though, for he feared encouraging her waywardness."

"He acted upon some of her advice?"

"Yes, regarding the strengthening of the walls. Indeed," the Rider went on, "I think he should have acted upon all of her suggestions."

"Why do you say that?"

"'Tis true woman are slight of frame compared with men, but their eyes are as sharp—mayhap sharper in some respects, for they know they cannot rely upon their strength to keep them safe. They must be observant and clever where a man may rely solely upon force, perhaps to his peril if he overlooks a subtle threat. Éowyn is troubled by a culvert that breaches the Deeping Wall. It is small, an outlet for waste water, but she declares that small as it is it might be made use of by a clever foe. She begged my father that he would give orders for the redirecting of the water through some other channel. Gríma, however, argued that the expense in goods and labor would be too great, and as has all too often been the case, my father allowed the Wormtongue to rule him in this matter."

Théodred had been chewing on the heel of a loaf of bread, and with a sudden angry gesture, he threw it into the fire, glaring at it moodily as the flames consumed it. "And then there is the matter of Éowyn's marriage," he went on when the heel had been reduced to cinders.

"Ah, Éowyn has been promised to someone. Who is the fortunate man?"

"No, she has _not_ been promised, as she should have been by now. Many names have been put forth, but Gríma finds fault with every suitor and will not even permit that the names be mentioned to Éowyn. Long ago my father swore to her that she would have some say in the matter of her marriage, but it seems that the promise is to be broken."

"Éowyn will not bear that well," Mithrandir observed. "She has the spirit of a Shield-Maiden."

"Yes, and Gríma uses that as an excuse for rebuffing all who would espouse her. He says none is her equal, that she must marry only a man who will someday wield great power. However, I am the only one hereabouts who will someday have the mastery, and Éowyn and I are too close to be espoused."

"Cousin marriages are permitted," Mithrandir pointed out.

"True, but I was not thinking in terms of the blood-connection. Gandalf, Éowyn and I were raised as brother and sister. I could no more marry Éowyn than Éomer could. I could never think of her as a wife, and I could never act toward her as a husband."

"That _would_ be an impediment," said Mithrandir dryly. "Have you not considered looking outside the realm of Rohan for a suitable spouse for your cousin?"

"I have, Gandalf. Not three months ago I rode to Minas Tirith so that we might renew a trade agreement with the Steward of Gondor. There I met again the sons of Denethor."

"They are worthy Men," Mithrandir said cautiously. "I assume you are thinking that Éowyn ought to be espoused to the older one, who would be expected to succeed his father as Steward."

"I would not wish Boromir upon my cousin," Théodred replied heatedly. Mithrandir raised his eyebrows. Théodred flushed at his having spoken with such vehemence.

"Do not mistake me, Gandalf. Boromir is an honorable Man, but he is not suited in temperament to be husband to Éowyn. He has a pride tending to arrogance, and he would be oblivious to the fact that my cousin has claims to dignity equal to his own. He would appreciate neither her cleverness nor her spirit. She would be very unhappy as his wife. He would put her on display, a token of his puissance, but he would never grant her the scope for her own talents."

"It is Faramir, then, that you would have your cousin marry."

"Yes," Théodred said eagerly. "He is as honorable as Boromir, but his pride is of a different sort. He has a greater desire to do good than to be powerful, and he does not scorn those who are lower or weaker than he." There was no mistaking the look of frustration that now came upon the Rider's face. "Alas! When I mentioned his name to my father, Gríma sat at his right hand and had his judgment in his keeping. 'Faramir to espouse your cousin!' he scoffed. 'Would you have the Lady Éowyn marry a Man who is despised by his own father? Truly, little love must you bear for cousin if you would have her join her fate to that of a Man whose future will be blighted by the disgust he arouses in his closest kin'. Gandalf, I would have struck him down, but the courtesy of my father's hall forbade it. I would not bring shame upon the grey hairs of Théoden son of Thengel!"

Théodred sighed and fell silent. After awhile, he heard the sound of whinnying and looked up. Legolas had gone among the horses, and they were greeting him, butting one another in their eagerness to nuzzle his neck. Legolas was laughing and kissing every muzzle within reach. Théodred's eyes widened. "Gandalf," he said, turning again to the wizard, "your friend is named 'Legolas', is that not so?"

"True," replied the wizard.

"I have heard of a Legolas. He is the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood. Is this the same?"

"Yes," answered the Istar, keeping his face neutral.

"He is a prince, then. He is, moreover, estimable in his own right, both as a great archer and as the trusted companion of Gandalf the Grey."

"Yes," said the wizard again. He suspected he knew where these questions tended.

"I suppose," Théodred said carefully, "that his father has arranged a most excellent match for him."

"Not yet," said Mithrandir, trying not to laugh.

Théodred looked surprised. "Yet the maidens must flock about him."

"Legolas," said the wizard, "seldom alights long enough to give the maidens the opportunity to flock."

"Ah," said Théodred wisely, "much like a Rider. We are forever on the move."

"Rather more peripatetic I should say," replied Mithrandir. "Although you ride out on frequent sorties, you look to Edoras as your home. Legolas has no home. Or, rather, he has many. He is equally at home in Mirkwood, Lothlórien, and Imladris. And," the wizard added pointedly, "for an Elf he is yet young. It will be centuries before he develops any interest in settling down—if then!"

Théodred subsided. "Well," he said gloomily, "if in your wanderings you should encounter a Man both unwed and destined to wield power, kindly send word to me at Meduseld."

'I have encountered such a Man', Mithrandir thought to himself, 'but he is not for Éowyn'. Aloud he said, "I should not give up on Faramir if I were you. Perhaps circumstances will change, and a marriage will become feasible."

"I don't see how," Théodred grumbled. "Not as long as Gríma is in the picture."

Mithrandir briefly considered hinting to Théodred that one might perhaps take steps to remove Gríma from the picture. In the end, though, he refrained. The wizard was not certain that subornation of murder was part of his charge. 'In any event', he said to himself, 'it may be that Gríma is destined to play a role that I do not yet comprehend. It is best not to adopt the methods of the enemy unless it is indeed clear that such steps are unavoidable'.

Breakfast was now at an end. Mithrandir arose and politely bade Théodred farewell. "I am grateful for your hospitality, Théodred, but Legolas and I must now resume our journey."

"Where are you headed, Gandalf?"

"South."

"Ah, to Gondor."

"Perhaps I should be more explicit. Now that we have reached the Gap of Rohan, we shall travel east for a time before again turning south."

Théodred blanched. "Not Mordor," he whispered.

"The same," Mithrandir replied cheerfully.

Théodred quickly recovered himself. "Would you like an escort to our southern border?" he asked.

Mithrandir shook his head. "Nay, Théodred. 'Tis kind of you to offer, but we would lose the element of secrecy if you accompanied us."

"Will you accept the loan of two horses, then, to ease your passage?"

Legolas had drawn near, and at the word 'horses', he looked hopeful. "Aren't you tired of walking, Mithrandir?" he appealed. The wizard ignored him. "My young friend and I have already discussed whether or not to ride," he explained to Théodred. "Your offer is very generous, but we must decline it."

Legolas huffed. Stalking away, he pretended to busy himself with checking the straps of his quiver. As he adjusted them, he muttered elvish words that even Théodred, Man though he was, recognized to be oaths. The Rider nodded toward the Elf and grinned. "Your friend does not seem to be in accord with your wishes, Gandalf."

"Ah, youth," Mithrandir said, making a show of rolling his eyes. Then he grew serious. "There will come a day, Théodred, when neither I nor my friend will spurn any assistance that you or your fellows may proffer. Look to it!"

Théodred swung himself up on his horse. "You may count upon me and all who hold to me, Gandalf." With that he shouted to his comrades, "We ride north! Hah!"

Spurring their horses, the Rohirrim thundered forth. When they had crested the swell of the plain, Legolas came to stand by Mithrandir.

"They have magnificent horses," he said wistfully.

"Legolas," said the wizard, laying his hand upon the young Elf's shoulder, "I assure you that you will someday become better acquainted with the steeds of the Rohirrim. But not today, my lad, not today."

With that, Elf and wizard resumed their trek.


	7. Chapter 7: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _Enigma Jade, McCross, Daughter of Thranduil, Windwraith, K'lara, A Whisper in the Wind, _and_ CAH._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 7: The Stairs of Cirith Ungol**

Mithrandir and Legolas crouched behind a boulder. Past their hiding place threaded a column of Men and packhorses. "Haradhrim traders," breathed the wizard once the column had passed. Legolas wrinkled his nose.

"I cannot fathom why Men would trade with Sauron. Don't they understand that the Dark Lord is no friend to mankind?"

"Legolas, the Haradhrim care not for 'friendship'. All that matters is profit, and they earn much wealth bearing goods to Mordor."

"Would Sauron have grown so powerful without the connivance of such Men?"

"Perhaps not, and that is why the Haradhrim do not fear Sauron. They are useful to him, and as long as they do not cross him, they remain under his protection. But if Sauron ever subjugates Gondor and the West, the Southrons will come to rue the day that they allied themselves with the Dark Lord. Once they are no longer vital to him, Sauron will treat them no better than his slaves. For why would he trade for that which he can take by force?"

"I would not pity them should that happen," Legolas declared fiercely, "for 'twould be a fate that they brought upon themselves."

"Do not be too quick to withhold your pity, Legolas. It is true that the Haradhrim are a corrupted race, but you must never forget that even Elves have on occasion been susceptible to corruption."

Legolas fell silent. Mithrandir's words had hit home, for the young Elf had once come very near to falling under the malign influence of Saruman. Under pretense of kindness and in his most mellifluous voice, the white wizard had sought to persuade Legolas to remain at Isengard under his tutelage. 'Saruman put on such a show of solicitude as he tried to sway me', Legolas reminded himself, 'that even now I do not know how I had the strength to break free of his spell. Perhaps I should not have been able to do so if I had not hoped for sanctuary in Imladris. Had I no such prospect in mind, perhaps I should have accepted Saruman's offer. Likely I would have felt that I had no choice'.

Mithrandir trusted Saruman, but Legolas never had. Now he shivered at the thought that he could have become the white wizard's creature. Mithrandir looked at him with concern. Grown Elves were not in the habit of suffering from the cold. "Are you well, Legolas?" he asked anxiously. Legolas did not reply but shivered all the more. Now Mithrandir was alarmed. He took off his cloak and wrapped it about Legolas. When Legolas continued to shiver, Mithrandir began to rub the Elf's arms and shoulders. Gradually Legolas began to feel warm again.

"You gave me a fright, mellon-nîn," said Mithrandir when the Elf had at last begun to recovered. "What ailed you, my son?"

"The thought of being corrupted by such a one as Sauron," whispered Legolas.

"Ah," said Mithrandir. "I see that my little speech had greater efficacy than I expected. I am sorry, Legolas. I did not mean to alarm you."

Legolas shook his head. "It is not your fault, Mithrandir. You spoke the truth. Why should you apologize for doing so?"

"Even one who speaks the truth should be mindful of its effect upon his listeners," Mithrandir replied. "Legolas, you still shiver a little, and you look pale. You must swallow a sip of miruvor."

"I thank you, Mithrandir, but no. We should save that elixir for a wound more grievous than the one I suffer."

Now reasonably recovered, Legolas arose to his feet. "The Haradhrim are far ahead by now, Mithrandir. We should move on. Are we not close to our destination?"

"Yes, we draw near to Imlad Morgul, or Morgul Vale as Men call it."

"And you mean to try the Morgul Pass?"

Mithrandir shook his head. "Indeed I do not, Legolas. The Morgul Pass is well known and equally well guarded."

"Elrond was wrong, then. You do not after all mean to enter into Mordor but merely to spy out its borders."

"No, Elrond was correct. I do intend to cross into Mordor, albeit very briefly. There is another way over the Mountains of Shadow."

"I have not heard that there was one hereabouts."

"This pass is not generally known—which is of course why I mean to try it. It is the Pass of Cirith Ungol."

"Why is it not well known?"

"Because it is much more dangerous than the Morgul Pass and therefore less frequented."

"It is well guarded by Orcs, then?"

"Oh, it is indeed well guarded—but not by Orcs."

"You are speaking in riddles, Mithrandir, but I am no novice! Speak forthrightly, for as your comrade in this venture, I am entitled to know all."

"You have been my comrade, yes, but now we shall be sundered for a space. I shall attempt this path on my own."

Legolas was aghast. "Mithrandir! You said this pass is more dangerous than the Morgul Pass. This is hardly the time for our paths to be sundered!"

"Indeed it is," Mithrandir said calmly. "It is my intention to try out all the lesser ways into Mordor. I would know all the small, secret paths that may be attempted by one person—and not by a warrior, mind you, but by one who will rely on stealth and secrecy rather than the strength of his arms."

"If I accompanied you, I would not prevent you from accomplishing that task," argued Legolas. "Moreover," he added, the truth dawning upon him, "you say that this pass is called Cirith Ungol. That means the "Pass of the Spider." Its guardian is a spider, isn't that so? Then who better to accompany you than a Mirkwood Elf well-acquainted with the ways of the descendants of Ungoliant?"

Mithrandir smiled. He could not help but be touched by the Elf's eagerness to safeguard 'his' wizard. "Legolas," he said gently, "I want to explore this path with the eyes of someone who will _not_ be acquainted with the ways of the giant spiders of Mirkwood. I must know what he will see so that, should it be necessary he come this way, I will be able to give him good counsel that may help him safeguard himself. You would not be able to restrain yourself from sharing your knowledge of Mirkwood spiders. Therefore"—and here the wizard's voice grew stern—"I forbid you from accompanying me up the Stairs of Cirith Ungol."

Legolas had heard Mithrandir use that tone of voice before and knew it would not be wise to argue any further. Perplexed and troubled, he silently followed the wizard. Whatever did it mean, all this speech about a person who was no warrior and who would attempt a dangerous path through stealth and secrecy alone?

In a little while, wizard and Elf had penetrated far enough into Morgul Vale to come in sight of the tower of Minas Morgul where it stood on the far side of the bridge across the Morgulduin, River of Sorcery. On the northern side of the river ran the Morgul Road, which led directly to the Morgul Pass, but they were not going that way. Instead, Mithrandir led Legolas to some tumbled blocks at the base of the cliff almost directly across from the bridge. He pointed at the cliff, and Legolas saw carved into its side an almost impossibly steep set of stairs. "I will ascend the Stairs of Cirith Ungol," said Mithrandir. "This is the Straight Stair. Past it lies the Winding Stair."

"And beyond that?" said Legolas.

"A tunnel that leads to the Pass of Cirith Ungol."

"The spider has its lair in the tunnel, I'll warrant."

"Yes, Legolas. Shelob's lair."

"How do you propose to slip by Shelob?"

"That's what I mean to find out, my lad. Orcs prefer the Morgul Pass, but it is the longer way. When their masters drive them to make haste between Minas Morgul and the Tower of Cirith Ungol, they will try this path, and very often survive, too. I imagine that there may be small niches off the main tunnel where they can secrete themselves when Shelob is on the hunt. Perhaps there are also side tunnels through which they are able to escape. If so, I intend to spy them out, and when I return I shall draw a map that may prove to be very useful."

"How long do you expect me to wait?"

"Oh, you are free to depart whenever you wish," Mithrandir said airily.

"That is not what I meant, and you know it!" cried Legolas angrily. "How long must I wait before I am allowed to come after you?"

Mithrandir grew serious at once. "I am sorry, my son. I was only trying to make light of the situation. Still, if I have not returned in two days, you had better make your way north."

"I will not!"

"Elrond be dratted for insisting that you accompany me!" cried the wizard. "I do not want you to come to any harm!"

"And _I_ do not want _you_ to come to any harm," the young Elf retorted.

"Legolas," pleaded Mithrandir. "Your father once thought you had been lost to spiders. I do not wish his fear to become the truth."

"I made a promise, Mithrandir. I swore to Elrond that I would see you safe to Mordor and back again. I don't mean to break that promise."

Mithrandir groaned and put his head in his hands. "Stubborn, stubborn Elf," he muttered. He sighed and looked up. "Legolas," he declared firmly, "you may not accompany me, and there is the end of it." He seized his staff and arose. "It is sundown. As soon as it is full dark, I will begin the climb." Seeking a way to forestall further conversation, the wizard strode to a spot where he could pretend to keep watch upon Minas Morgul.

As for Legolas, he sat brooding. 'He is Mithrandir, my teacher and mentor', he thought unhappily. "I am bound to obey him. Of course', he mused, 'Elrond, too, has been my teacher and mentor. Am I not bound to obey him as well?'

Legolas puzzled over his dilemma for awhile and then suddenly brightened. 'Mithrandir said I couldn't _accompany_ him', he observed to himself. 'He never did say that I couldn't _follow_ him'.

Now serene, the Elf waited patiently. When it was full dark, Mithrandir turned to him. "I am going now," the wizard said shortly.

"I can see that," Legolas said calmly. Mithrandir looked at him suspiciously. "You do understand why you cannot accompany me?"

"Yes, Mithrandir. I do understand why you do not wish me to accompany you."

Mithrandir still looked suspicious. "You had best obey," he threatened.

"I would not dream of disobeying you," Legolas assured him.

"Hmmph," snorted the Istar skeptically. He began his climb, every few minutes looking down to make sure that the Elf had not moved. At last, somewhat reassured, Mithrandir ceased peering down and threw himself entirely into ascending the steep path that edged its way up the side of the cliff.

Legolas waited until the wizard had passed around a bend and was no longer in sight, and then he, too, began to climb the Straight Stair.


	8. Chapter 8: The Price of Mercy

**Thanks to the following reviewers: _AlabrithGaiamoon, Opalkitty, The Inebriated Lion-Minion, Leggy9591, Windwraith, K'lara, _and_ CAH._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 8: The Price of Mercy **

After hours of hard climbing, Mithrandir stood at the entrance to Shelob's lair and peered in cautiously. He listened intently but heard nothing. 'I reckon', he said to himself, 'that I would hear a scraping noise if that big lumbering beast of a spider were near and on the hunt. Perhaps she has fed recently and is resting in some dark recess'.

He hesitated a few minutes more, for the stench sickened him, but at last he screwed his courage to the sticking point and ventured within. He shuddered at what he saw once he had gotten past the entrance. On every side dangled Shelob's victims. Some were Orcs who, driven by fear of their masters, had gambled on the dark passageway and lost all. Others were mountain goats that had wandered too near the entrance in search of a mouthful of tough alpine grass. There were birds, also, and bats. It seemed that nothing was too small to escape the notice of Shelob—not as long as it was a creature in whom blood ran.

All were encased in silk like mummies and suspended from the ceiling as if they were stalactites woven of cloth. Most were dead. Their dried skins, empty of any remnants of flesh, swayed in the slight breeze that came from the tunnel's entrance. A few Mithrandir suspected might still be alive, for they did not appear desiccated. Mithrandir shuddered again as he thought of the fate in store for the victims that were not yet carcasses. For Shelob was indifferent as to whether or not a body was dead. Indeed, she preferred to commence her feeding whilst her victims still lived. It could be said that Shelob kept the freshest larder in all of Middle-earth. Her first dose of poison would merely incapacitate her victim, leaving him unconscious and paralyzed. Then, when she was ready to feed, she would inject her dinner with a venom that would dissolve flesh. Often she would begin to suck out the softened mass before liquification was complete. If she injected the victim in the extremities, the brain might be the last portion to dissolve. Most horribly, if Shelob had recently fed on one victim, she might not inject the liquefying venom into her next meal for quite some time. In the meanwhile, her intended victim might have had time to recover from the initial poison. In that case, Shelob's prey would be conscious at the outset of the process of what was in fact a sort of digestion that took place within the body of the victim himself.

With these thoughts in mind, the wizard was caught up short when he realized that one of the intended meals in Shelob's larder was in the form of a Man. Orcs and beasts he had expected, but a Man? The wizard peered carefully at the entrapped figure, trying to make out what manner of Man he was. 'Southron, I think', he muttered to himself at last. Near the victim lay a pack. Its contents, chiefly trade goods, were spilled upon the floor of the cave. 'A Haradhrim trader', Mithrandir said to himself. 'No doubt he sought to gain an advantage over his fellows by taking the short cut to the Tower of Cirith Ungol. He thought thereby to sell his wares without competition. Well, it is said that 'short cuts make long delays', and it has certainly proven so in this case'.

Mithrandir began to turn aside but then looked again upon the Man. 'Scoundrel though he may be, 'tis a horrible fate to be devoured alive by a spider'. The wizard continued to hesitate. 'I could cut him down, but he is in no condition to walk. When Shelob returns, he will be no better off than before. And if I meddled with Shelob's larder, she should be alerted to my presence. Still, it is hard to leave a Man in such a grievous predicament'.

Back and forth Mithrandir's mind flew. At times he would remind himself that, if he were not called upon to assassinate caitiffs like Gríma, no more was he charged with the rescue of such folk. However, no sooner had he told himself that than he would feel pity for the Man. 'Still', he would remind himself firmly, 'one may feel pity even for Orcs, for they are slaves and to some degree not responsible for their situation. Yet it does not follow that I must be compelled to go to their aid—particularly when I have a charge to fulfill. I was not sent to Middle-earth to rescue scoundrels. This Man's plight is of his own doing, and I must place my task above all other considerations'.

Mithrandir pondered a little longer. 'Perhaps', he sighed, 'I should cut the Man's throat. At least he would not suffer then, as he would if he regains consciousness before Shelob returns to feed upon him. No', he decided, shaking his head vigorously. 'Whether he is to suffer or not, that is not for me to decide'.

Mithrandir knew that in a case like this every choice was a bad one. At length, and most unhappily, Mithrandir left the Man to his fate and began to explore the tunnel and all its niches, large and small. 'There are many alcoves', he observed to himself, 'large enough to hide in and small enough so that Shelob could never enter'. Also, as he expected, there were some side tunnels by which a person might escape to the outside. Carefully the wizard committed to memory everything he saw. After several hours of exploring, he began to believe that a person proceeding with great care could indeed thread his way through the tunnel without encountering Shelob or becoming trapped in one of her webs. Before he was done, he had discovered the very bedchamber of the spider. He cast his eyes upon the sleeping beast, sated with a recent meal, its belly engorged with blood.

'Nasty creature', he murmured. 'Still, Shelob is a descendant of Ungoliant, who was numbered amongst the lesser Ainur. Odd isn't it, to think that Shelob and I have in common that we are both in some fashion Maiar. Well, well, some say that Gandalf the Grey weaves webs in which to ensnare the unwary. It troubles me to think that our kinship may be more than metaphorical, however!"

Careful not to arouse the slumbering creature, Mithrandir backed out of the recess and retraced his steps to the entrance of the tunnel. There he once again cast his eyes upon the dangling Southron. To Mithrandir's horror, he saw that the Man had regained consciousness. Wriggling in his bonds, his eyes dilated in fear, the trader stared at him beseechingly. Mithrandir wavered in his resolve not to meddle.

'It would be inhumane to leave the wretch to suffer the hideous fate of being eaten alive over the space of several hours. I must either cut his throat or cut him down'.

His thoughts were interrupted by whimpering sounds from the cocoon, which was now swinging back and forth from the Man's frantic but futile efforts at breaking free. Mithrandir winced. He couldn't cut the throat of a creature who, caitiff though he might have been, struggled so fiercely to live on. Sighing, he drew forth his blade and began to saw at the trunk line that suspended the Man from the ceiling. The silk rope proved surprisingly tough, and the knife kept getting stuck in the sticky fibers. Mithrandir grunted as he labored. 'Durned stuff is almost impossible to cut with this blade'. Growing absorbed in his task, he began to sweat, but he had become committed to rescuing the unfortunate merchant. Hope having been aroused in the breast of the Southron, it would be all the crueler to abandon him now.

In her den, meanwhile, Shelob stirred. All the silk lines in her tunnel were interconnected. Let but one be touched and all trembled until at length the vibrations traveled to the inmost lair, where Shelob lay. As Mithrandir labored to free the Southron, his efforts were thus telegraphed to the giant arachnid. Swiftly and silently she came to deal with the creature who dared meddle with her larder, and intent as he was upon his task, Mithrandir did not perceive her until it was too late.

Mithrandir had his back to the inner recesses of Shelob's lair, so his first inkling of the peril in which he stood came from the eyes of the Southron. The trader had calmed a little at the prospect of being rescued, but when the enormous arachnid suddenly loomed behind the wizard, the Southron's eyes bugged out in terror. Mithrandir had laid his staff to the side, but at once he spun about and tried for reach to it. He still clutched his knife, and with it he tried to fend off Shelob, but with one of her many appendages she knocked it aside, and with another she kicked away his staff before ever he could lay hands on it. With the spider's stinger now poised above him, Mithrandir tried to dodge away, but he lacked the agility of an Elf or a Hobbit. Shelob's first attempt to stab him did fail, but on the second attempt she pierced him in the shoulder, near to the birthmark that Legolas had noticed that day when the Dunlending children had showered the wizard with apples. Foaming at the mouth, Mithrandir groaned, staggered, and fell. Unconscious now, he lay limp as Shelob quickly bound him in silk and hung him from the ceiling of the cave. Then, her appetite reawakened by the exercise, the spider turned her attention to the Southron. As the Man wriggled frantically, she crept toward him. Out of malevolence, perhaps, she injected into his heel the venom that would gradually dissolve him into a pulp. Then she folded her legs and settled herself to wait until she could begin to suck the disintegrating trader into her maw.

It was about this time that Legolas arrived at the entrance to the tunnel. He settled himself a few yards away, behind a boulder, and considered what to do. He hesitated to enter into the cavern straightaway, for he knew that Mithrandir would be angry if he discovered that the young Elf had disobeyed him without having had a good reason to do so. 'Indeed,' he said to himself, 'Mithrandir may insist upon being vexed even if I enter the cave _with_ good reason. He can be _such_ a stubborn, irascible old coot!'

It was very quiet there near the entrance to Shelob's lair, and Legolas wondered whether that were a good sign or a bad one. 'How am I to know', the Elf asked himself, 'if Mithrandir is in danger? This silence may mean nothing—or it may mean everything'.

As he crouched behind the boulder, he felt a sudden warmth in his arm, next to his birthmark. This sensation progressed to a burning pain and then a numbness. Legolas sprang to his feet. All at once, he understood what had happened years before, when he had been an elfling and had followed Mithrandir to Morgul Vale. 'This birthmark that we share—mine hurt dreadfully. That was how I knew that he was in trouble that time—the birthmark was the link between us!'

Fortunately, though the arm felt numb, it obeyed the Elf's commands. Legolas drew an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bow. He knew from experience that, if at all possible, it was best to fight these spiders from afar. Even the most agile of Elves might find it difficult to fend off eight legs simultaneously. He knew, also, the weak points in their carapaces that might be breached by an arrow. Drawing taut the string of his bow, he slipped into the tunnel.

From her position, Shelob could see the entrance, and she reared up at once. This was all to the good, for it was the joints of her limbs that Legolas meant to aim at, and stretched out to her full height, the spider revealed each and every one of these weak points. Shelob had dwelt in this cave for centuries and was accustomed to the futile flailing of Orcs, not the well-aimed missiles of Elves. When she reared up to display her size, she was also accustomed to terrified reactions from her prey. She was not used to the cool reaction of an elven prince. 'Good', Legolas murmured to himself. ''Tis like shooting at the weak points in Orcish armor'. He released an arrow, which embedded itself in a joint in one of Shelob's front appendages. Almost faster than the eye could see he shot off a second armor that likewise embedded itself in a front limb. Shelob was now down to six legs, and none of them a front one.

Although Shelob had never encountered a foe such as this, she had not lived to her great age by being stupid. She knew that this was an encounter she could not win, and dragging her front legs, she retreated as quickly as she could. Once Legolas could no longer hear her limbs scraping across the tunnel's rocky floor, he sprang to the side of his friend. Taking care to position himself so that he was facing the interior of the cave, so that Shelob could not return and take him unawares, the Elf drew one of his blades, which was both sharper and longer than the wizard's small knife, and quickly severed the silk rope that held Mithrandir suspended from the ceiling. That accomplished, he went to the Southron and cut his throat with one quick move. Legolas knew that the Man was past saving, and with no doubt now as to what the Man's fate would be, any qualms that Elf might have indulged in were moot. The way of mercy was the way of the blade.

It was fortunate for Mithrandir that Legolas hailed from Mirkwood, a place infested by spiders of the same race as Shelob. It was in fact from the Mirkwood Elves that Mithrandir had acquired his own knowledge about the feeding habits of the descendants of Ungoliant. Perhaps an Elf from Imladris or Lothlórien, one unfamiliar with the ways of such spiders, might have believed Mithrandir dead. With that mistaken notion, the Elf might have cut down Mithrandir but only so as to place him upon a funeral pyre. Legolas was proof against that sort of mistake. Knowing that Mithrandir was in fact not dead but paralyzed, with the greatest of care he dragged him to the opening of the cave. Then he set about gently lowering the wizard down the side of the cliff. To do so, he hit upon the notion of taking advantage of the strength of Shelob's silk. 'Mithrandir is bound securely, and I shall leave him so', the Elf said to himself, 'for it will be easier to lower him if his limbs are not loose and dangling. With a rope of silk, I shall lower him to the nearest shelf, climb down myself, and then lower him to the next one'.

Fortunately, Mithrandir remained quite unconscious during this operation, for Legolas soon found that it worked best if he fastened the length of silk to the wizard's feet and lowered him headfirst. No doubt the wizard would have been disoriented if he had awoken to find himself dangling head down from the side of a cliff. But he remained safely asleep until Legolas had managed to lower him all the way to the ground.

Once on the ground, Legolas cut the wizard free and sought to rouse him from his stupor. Legolas had strength greater than one would expect from one so slender. Nevertheless, he knew that even an Elf could not drag Mithrandir very far over the uneven ground. No matter how groggy the wizard might be, he would have to make shift to walk, even if only at a snail's pace. Legolas searched through the wizard's bag, looking for the vial of miruvor that the Istar had earlier tried to get Legolas to drink. The wizard's mouth was closed, but the Elf squeezed his jaws to force it open and poured a drop into the back of his throat. Ai! he could not get the wizard to swallow, and the eventually the precious liquid dribbled down the wizard's chin. Frustrated, Legolas sat back on his heels. 'How ever am I to rouse him. I know the poison will wear off eventually, but the longer we remain in Mordor, the greater the chance that our foes will stumble across us. I must awaken him!"

At last Legolas hit upon a desperate measure. With a grimace, he removed Mithrandir's pipe from his bag. The Elf sighed. 'Now I am forced to say it is fortunate that Mithrandir purchased pipe weed in Dunland'. He stuffed the bowl with the weed and lit it. Then, taking a deep breath, he put the stem to his mouth and began to puff upon it. Coughing and gagging, he managed to capture in his lungs a quantity of smoke, which he blew into the face of the wizard. Several times he repeated the maneuver. Mithrandir's eyelids began to flutter, and at length he opened his eyes and looked about in bewilderment. "Legolas," he rasped, "whatever are you doing with my pipe?"

"Explain later," squeaked the Elf, who lurched to his feet and staggered to a boulder. Leaning over it, he retched repeatedly. When he had ceased heaving, he staggered back to the wizard and threw himself down by his side. Mithrandir wrinkled up his nose. "Legolas! you smell sour, like milk gone bad. In fact, you stink as if you had just—"

"Oooooh," groaned Legolas.

"Oh," said Mithrandir. He raised himself upon his elbow and spied the vial of miruvor. "I think you had better drink some of that." He sat up and reached for the bottle.

Legolas nodded mutely. He opened his mouth like a baby bird awaiting a worm, and Mithrandir uncorked the vessel and poured a few drops into the Elf's mouth. With an effort, Legolas swallowed. To the mutual relief of Elf and wizard, the liquid was not immediately regurgitated. After several more doses, the color of the Elf's face, which had taken on a greenish cast, began to improve. Mithrandir, who had recovered his wits almost as soon as he had recovered consciousness, ventured a joke. "You are a Greenleaf indeed, Legolas." His only reply was a baleful look, and Mithrandir decided he had best not jest about the matter. He turned to another topic. "Well," he observed, "I shall recommend against going _that_ way. By the by, that reminds me," he continued. "You did not obey my injunction against accompanying me into Shelob's lair.

"I did," gasped Legolas.

"You didn't," returned Mithrandir.

"Oh, but I did," retorted Legolas. "I didn't _accompany_ you; I _followed_ you. You failed to specify that I wasn't to follow you. Besides," he added triumphantly, "as I am of age, I reckon that any commands you give me are more what you'd call guidelines than actual rules."

Now it was Mithrandir's turn to look baleful. "I suppose," he said morosely, "that you will be forever casting in my teeth the fact that you were proved right through your disobedience."

Legolas was fast shaking off the effects of the pipe weed. "Well," he said drolly, "you must admit that you got into a bit of a sticky situation."

Mithrandir looked even more baleful. "Ha ha. A sticky situation," he said tonelessly. "I am overcome by your rapier wit."

"Better to be overcome by my wit than by spider venom," Legolas pointed out.

"I must allow the truth of that," conceded the wizard. "Well," he said briskly, shaking off his discomfiture, "I shan't hold it against you."

"That I was right or that I saved you?" Legolas shot back.

"Neither, my lad, neither," said the wizard insouciantly. He waved his hand dismissively. "After all, whatever your behavior, you meant well."

Bemused, Legolas shook his head. How had Mithrandir managed to manipulate the conversation so that it sounded as if the _Elf_ were in the wrong? 'Next I know he will be asking me to apologize to him', Legolas observed. 'And no doubt, after he has gotten me dizzy with his quibbles and quiddities, I shall do so!'

For now, though, the most important thing was that they should retreat from the vicinity of Morgul Vale. Legolas had retrieved Mithrandir's knife and staff, but he had necessarily left behind the two arrows embedded in Shelob's limbs. No doubt the spider would make shift to scrape them off. If they should land someplace where they were espied by an Orc, then the game was up. The Orcs were not so stupid that they would not hunt for the owners of two arrows that were clearly not orcish in design.

"Can you walk, Mithrandir?" Legolas asked.

"I shall have to lean heavily upon my staff, but, yes, I believe I can manage. What about you, my novice smoker who cannot hold his stomach?"

"I do not walk on my stomach," Legolas said, grimacing again at the memory of the foul taste of pipe weed.

"Odd," said Mithrandir, "for I have heard that on army travels on its stomach."

"We are not an army, Mithrandir, merely an old Man and a young Elf." The Elf arose and helped the wizard to his feet. With part of his weight supported by his staff and part supported by the Elf, Mithrandir took a few steps. "I shall slow you down dreadfully," worried the Istar. "Why don't you go on ahead and I will catch up with you."

"In which case," Legolas pointed out. "I should not in the end have traveled any faster than you."

Mithrandir sighed and yielded the point. With the wizard leaning upon the shoulder of the Elf, the two friends slowly began to hobble north.


	9. Chapter 9: Horses at Last

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**Chapter 9: Horses at Last **

From a thicket Legolas spied upon yet another band of Southrons. The Elf had been amazed by the volume of trade between Mordor and Harad. Even though it was based upon greed and self-interest on the part of each, this alliance between the two lands troubled the Elf. He brooded over what the union might portend for the Elves and the other Free Peoples of Middle-earth. More immediately, though, he was distressed because whenever Southron traders drew near he and his companion were forced to go to ground. They were losing much time in this fashion. Had circumstances been different, these delays would have been no more than a species of annoyance, but Legolas was anxious to convey Mithrandir to Imladris as soon as possible. It was plain that Shelob had left the wizard with an injury that would not heal without the proper medicine, and the Elf therefore wished to place his friend under the care of Elrond as soon as possible. As Legolas had watched Mithrandir seemingly lose strength by the hour, he had at first merely worried about the wizard. Now, however, he had reached the point of alarm, for he feared that the Istar would be unable to walk before too many more days had passed. Yet they were still deep within the badlands that surrounded Mordor.

While he watched the Southrons set up their camp for the night, the Elf formed a desperate resolution. He slipped away to return to Mithrandir and to lay his plan before him. The wizard, though, spoke before the Elf could. "Legolas," he said firmly, "I do not believe that I will be able to walk upon the morrow. You must leave me and make your way north, away from this deadly place."

Abandoning Mithrandir was not to be contemplated, and Legolas acted as if he had not heard the wizard speak. Instead, he commenced to declaim the speech he had been preparing.

"Mithrandir, your injury festers, and hereabouts grow none of the herbs that would have efficacy against the poison in your veins. But I cannot leave you to fetch those that do. It would take too many days to travel thence and return, and you would sicken all the more in the meanwhile. Moreover, during all that time you would be exposed to danger and helpless to defend yourself. Nor can I carry you the distance—that would still take too many days, for we would have to travel even more slowly than we have these past few days. Therefore, I must contrive to lay my hands upon a horse so that together you and I may continue to make our way north."

"A horse, Legolas? And how do you propose to do that? We are still many miles from the lands of the Rohirrim."

"True, but those merchants I spied, I could go to their camp and return from thence with a mount."

"Legolas, they trade with the forces of the Dark Lord. They will hardly sell a horse to you, an Elf!"

"I don't propose to _buy_ a horse, Mithrandir," Legolas replied coolly. "Hasn't the Cook told you? I am an accomplished sneak-thief!"

Mithrandir was well aware of the exploits to which Legolas' alluded, but the wizard still looked troubled.

"Legolas, if they should set eyes upon you, things may go badly—_will_ go badly. Scruffy human that he is, Aragorn could pull off an encounter with such scoundrels, but _you_!?"

"Then I shall go as a scruffy human myself. Mithrandir, you must trim my hair man-fashion."

Mithrandir looked as thunderstruck as if Legolas had just proposed that the wizard turn him into an Orc.

"Trim your hair! That will hardly turn you into a ruffian! What about your ears? And your skin?"

"You must leave enough hair so that I may cover my ears. As for my skin, I shall rub dirt into it. And you must loan me your tunic and leggings, Mithrandir. Mine will never do."

Legolas hastily undid his braids and sat with his back to Mithrandir. Reluctantly, the wizard took hold of a hank of the Elf's hair and hacked it off at the nape. He continued cutting in this fashion, leaving Legolas' hair long enough to cover the tips of his ears but not so long as to make him look out of place amongst Men.

"I _am_ sorry, Legolas," muttered the wizard as he sawed away.

"You needn't apologize," said Legolas. "It is not as if you are hacking off one of my hands. Besides, I shall have an eternity to grow my hair as long as ever it was."

His hair having been hacked short, Legolas doffed his garments and boots and pulled on Mithrandir's leggings and tunic. They were much too large, making it look as if Legolas were a waif dressed in cast-off clothes. That was all to the good, for it was in keeping with the disguise Legolas intended. Once dressed, Legolas rubbed dirt upon his face, hands, and feet until at last Mithrandir laughed and said Aragorn had never looked worse.

"Good!" declared Legolas. "If I am spied, I hope to pass as a beggarly urchin. They should not harm me then, I think, for I would pose no threat to them."

"The Haradhrim have slain many harmless folk," Mithrandir warned. "They are Men who, when bored, have been known to kill for the sheer amusement of it."

"Then I shall contrive to keep them otherwise entertained," Legolas promised.

Slipping back into the thicket, Legolas again studied the Southron encampment. The horses were being kept in its center, no doubt because the Men feared their mounts being dragged off by wolves or wargs or being stolen by rival bands of traders. Legolas considered and swiftly dismissed two options. He couldn't stroll into the camp and proffer silver for a horse. The Men looked ruffianly enough that they would likely keep both silver and horse. No doubt they would try to enslave him into the bargain. If he wished, he could pick several off with his bow and steal a horse in the resulting confusion, but he had no mind to slay Men for their horses. Not when there was another way. Setting his weapons aside, Legolas began to sing some doggerel verse that he had learned from Tom Bombadil long ago when he had been an elfling and had journeyed through the Old Forest in company with Mithrandir. The Elf knew that to a Man he would sound very young, not at all like a being who had dwelt in Arda for hundreds of years. He also knew that to their eyes he would look slight, his thinness belying the strength of the muscles hidden beneath the baggy leggings and ragged tunic. But he wanted to look not only young but foolish. Still singing, he staggered toward the camp, one shoulder hunched higher than the other, a silly grin o'erspreading his face.

As he had expected, all faces were turned toward him as he lurched into the light of the cook fire, but he noted with satisfaction that no one reached toward a weapon. Instead, the Men responded to his appearance with hoots and guffaws.

"A mooncalf," shouted one Man, "what has slipped his tether and wandered away from his keepers!"

Several of the Men began to low like cattle, and Legolas, still grinning stupidly, joined in. After a bit, though, he began to whinny, as he did so waving his hands toward the horses. The Men laughed anew.

"Has wit enough to tell the difference between a cow and a horse," observed one.

"Wonder if he has enough wit to scour these pots," said another, nodding toward the vessels scattered by the fire.

"Likely he does, else no one would have kept him—and someone _must_ have kept him, for no lackwit could survive on his own in these parts."

"Let's see what he can do, then," said the first Man. "Here, boy," he called, picking up a pot and holding it out toward Legolas. Obediently, Legolas took it from him. Kneeling down, he picked up a handful of sand and began to vigorously scour the interior of the vessel.

"There now," the Man said triumphantly. "He has been somebody's skivvy, doubtless. Well, finder's keepers. If his master's been so careless as to lose him, so much the worse for _him_. _We'll_ do right by the boy, won't we?"

This statement was met with laughter.

"Lackwits is the best kind of skivvy," observed a Man who was rolling himself up in his blanket, "for they don't know enough to demand their share of the loot."

"That's true," agreed another. "Lackwits is better than slaves that way. A slave may get uppity or try to run away, but a lackwit never will."

"Although they can get lost," observed a third. "Like this one, now. He's wandered into our camp, but only because he has wandered _out_ of somebody else's. How are we to know the same thing won't happen all over again?"

"Tie him up," somebody suggested.

This suggestion was met with hoots.

"What's the good of a skivvy what's been tied up?" came the shout. "Couldn't fetch and carry if he were suchlike."

"I have a better idea," opined one Man. "That sheep what we stole—it had a bell upon it. I kept it, I did, for I thought it might be worth a penny or two. What say we hang it about the neck of this here lackwit? If he begins to wander off, we could retrieve him by the sound of the bell."

This suggestion was met with shouts of approval. The Man rummaged about in his pack and drew forth a bell. He held it up and shook it. Then, grinning, he advanced on Legolas. The Elf forced himself to remain still as the Man hung the bell from a thong and then tied the thong about the Sinda's neck.

"Now, then," said the Man, pleased with his cleverness, "we can let this lad out of our sight and still be sure of him. What shall we have him do first?"

"He's fond of horses, in't he?" suggested one. "Let 'im see to the horses this night, for I am tired of sitting watch on 'em."

This suggestion met with universal approval, and one of the Men seized Legolas by the arm and dragged him into the midst of their small herd. "Now then, younker," he growled, shaking Legolas a little to be sure of his attention, "you are to stay with the horses. Do you understand?"

Legolas nodded his head vigorously, all the while grinning foolishly.

"Mind you do as you're told," threatened the Man. "If you don't stay in the midst of this herd, you will be whipped."

More vigorous nodding on the part of Legolas. 'You may be sure', the Elf said to himself, 'that I will indeed stay with these horses'. Still grinning, he stroked the neck of one of the horses, who very much seemed to appreciate the attention.

Satisfied, the Man returned to the fire, where he sat for a while exchanging ribald stories with his companions. Then, one by one, the Southrons fell asleep until only the sentry remained awake. Eventually, seeing how calm the horses were in the care of the 'lackwit', this Man, too, fell asleep.

As soon as he heard the last Southron begin to snore, Legolas removed the bell from his neck and hung it upon the smallest horse, a mare. This horse he hobbled so that it would not stray. Speaking softly to the others, he led them out of the camp, as he did so grinning at the sound of the bell, which sounded each time the hobbled mare moved slightly. He stopped briefly to retrieve his weapons, and then he urged the herd onward. When he could no longer hear the bell, he stopped and selected the two strongest looking mounts. These he tied to a tree. The others he drove off to the south, towards the Morgul Vale. He expected that the Men would follow the larger herd rather than bother about two strays. At any event, he meant for him and Mithrandir to be far away by the time the theft was discovered. Quickly he returned to the two horses, untied them, and led them to where Mithrandir lay resting.

"Wake up, Mithrandir," he said, gently shaking the wizard's uninjured shoulder. "You may sleep again once we are mounted."

He had to half drag the wizard to the horse and boost him upon its back, but as quick as could be they were on their way northward. The ground was too broken for them to travel at a pace faster than a walk, but Legolas reminded himself that proceeding at a walk was better than not proceeding at all.

They rode steadily throughout the night, no longer needing to stop frequently so that Mithrandir might rest and recover. When the sun arose, Legolas decided that they should press on. He walked in order to spare a horse, and ever so often he would have Mithrandir switch mounts. They were making good time now, for their path grew less broken.

As the sun set, they crossed into the lands of the Rohirrim. When they came to a stream, Legolas bathed his hands, face, and feet and once again garbed himself in his elven garments. Mithrandir gladly resumed his own tunic and leggings, for he had complained at having to ride a horse with his legs protected only by drawers. Legolas had not spared the time it would have taken to steal a saddle, and the wizard did not let the Elf forget it. Though Mithrandir's scolding was unreasonable, Legolas did not allow himself to be troubled by it. An irascible wizard was better than a dying one, and the Elf took Mithrandir's ill-humor as a sign that he would have the strength to recover from his wound.

The land grew grassier, and the moon arose. Legolas and the two horses proceeded at a trot. As for Mithrandir, he lay with his head upon his horse's neck. Suddenly, Legolas came to a halt and pulled on the leading reins, causing the horses to likewise halt. Mithrandir lifted his head.

"What is the matter, Legolas?" he asked, concerned.

"You had better dismount, Mithrandir," Legolas said calmly. "We are about to have guests, and we will want to greet them properly."

Mithrandir slid from his horse but held on to the headstall for support. Soon he could see what Legolas had espied: a band of mounted warriors. "Rohirrim," he said in relief.

"Yes," agreed Legolas, "Rohirrim. What is it that Men say as a sort of jest? 'I have good news, and I have bad news'."

"What is the good news?" asked Mithrandir, puzzled.

"As you have already observed, those who approach are Rohirrim."

"And the bad news?"

"These horses that I stole from the Southrons: The Southrons stole them from the Rohirrim first."

"Oh dear," exclaimed the wizard. "Oh dear."


	10. Chapter 10: Sauron or Saruman

**Thanks to the following reviewers:_ Windwraith, The Inebriated Lion-Minion, A Whisper In the Wind,_** **_Leggy9591,_** **_Krissy Wonder, Opal Kitty, and CAH._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you. **

**Chapter 10: Sauron or Saruman?**

As the band of Rohirrim approached, riding at a gallop, Legolas loosened his knives in their sheaths and checked his bow string.

"Who rides at the head of this band?" asked Mithrandir worriedly. "Is it Théoden?"

"Nay, Mithrandir. It is not."

"Who then? Hama? Gamling?"

"It is no Man that I know—if Man it be."

"Why do you say that?"

"He puts me in mind of a snake. He writhes in the saddle and lacks eyebrows. He has a baldfaced, lidless look to him."

Mithrandir groaned. "By the Valar but we are dogged by ill-fortune. That would be Gríma. Keep your ears covered, Legolas. This one has even less love for Elves than most."

Legolas had tucked his hair behind his ears, for he was not accustomed to their being covered. Now he hurriedly brushed his hair forward. For good measure, he scooped up a handful of soil and rubbed the dirt over his hands and face. It was too late to do anything about his clothes, however.

"Your fingernails," said Mithrandir.

"I beg pardon?"

"Get some dirt under your fingernails. You are lucky it was dark when you entered the Haradhrim camp, else they might have noticed that your fingernails were too clean. Oh, and you might try biting your nails, too, as yours are much too even. If you are to pass as a Man, you want ragged nails. Have you never noticed Aragorn's?"

Legolas _had_ noticed Aragorn's. The Elf made a face but nevertheless made shift to bite off as many of his nails as he could before the Rohirrim troop thundered up and surrounded them, spears at the ready.

"I bid thee good day, Master Gríma," called Mithrandir.

"Good day?" Gríma retorted. "Is it a good day when strangers freely wander the Plains of Rohan?"

"But we are no strangers, Master Gríma. We enjoyed Théodred's hospitality as we traveled east, and he gave us leave to continue our journey. Indeed, he would have provided us with an escort if we had wished."

Gríma's eyes narrowed. "What of these horses?" he said abruptly. "Are they not Rohirrim horses?"

"Indeed they are," Mithrandir replied calmly. "Théodred offered us the loan of horses. 'Twas most generous of him, for I know how the Rohirrim value their steeds." In this, Mithrandir did not lie, for Théodred had indeed made such an offer. "Next I see Théodred," continued the wizard, "I shall be sure to tell him how truly invaluable these horses have been. He will be surprised to hear of it, I am sure."

Thwarted thus far, Gríma turned his attention to Legolas, whom he had hitherto ignored. "You, boy," he snapped, "where do you hale from?"

"I have come from Dunland," Legolas replied carefully.

"Oh, Dunland," sneered Gríma. "That would account for your dirtiness." His eyes again narrowed. "Although I must say that you are dressed uncommonly well for a Dunlending brat—aye, and armed remarkably well, too."

"He accompanies me," Mithrandir interjected smoothly. "Would you have him look like a beggar?"

"I do not see why not," mocked Gríma, "as it is pretty well agreed that you look like one yourself." The Man laughed mirthlessly at his own wit, but the other Riders stirred and muttered uneasily. The Rohirrim were proud warriors who defended their lands fiercely, but they were not discourteous and in happier days had even been renowned for their hospitality. Mithrandir had sat at the board of their King, and he was, moreover, to their eyes an agéd Man. They were accustomed to showing respect both to their elders and to those favored by their King.

Gríma sensed that the Men were beginning to question his judgment, and he swiftly changed tack. "You will pardon me, Master Mithrandir," he said unctuously, "if in my zeal I questioned you sharply just now. Ever I seek to protect the interests of my master."

'Your master', thought Mithrandir, 'and who might that be? Sauron I don't doubt.' Aloud he said, "One who seeks to do good is to be praised." Legolas noticed that Mithrandir had not suggested that Gríma was the one who sought to do good. Nor had Gríma failed to notice Mithrandir's equivocation, but he had no choice but to hold his oily tongue.

"I thank you for your forbearance, Master Mithrandir," he said stiffly. At the outset, Gríma had been eager to bind the pesky wizard and so convey him to the borders of Fangorn, where the white wizard's creatures could deal with him. Now the Man wanted nothing but to be rid of Mithrandir at once. "We have delayed you in your quest, no doubt an important one. You must wish to ride on."

Mithrandir inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Master Gríma," called one of the Riders, "as they ride under the protection of Prince Théoden, doubtless he would want us to see to any needs they might have."

Gríma managed to reply through clenched teeth. "Of course. We shall provide our guests with water skins and such food as we can spare." To Gríma's chagrin, from all sides water skins and packets of dried meat were at once proffered by Men anxious to make amends for the insolence of Gríma Wormtongue.

So it was that Mithrandir and Legolas's encounter with Gríma ended with them not only still in possession of two stolen Rohirrim horses but also well supplied with Rohirrim provisions. As they rode, Mithrandir chuckled at Gríma's discomfiture. Legolas, meanwhile, felt glad that he would have no need to hunt, for now they should make better speed. Although Mithrandir had counterfeited strength as he sparred with Gríma, the wizard was still very ill. Knowing this, Legolas wanted to lay his hands upon some athelas, which they would find once they reached Eregion. Until then, he would care for Mithrandir's wound as best he could. It no longer seemed to be worsening, but it was not healing, either. As for Legolas's arm, it remained numb, but as from the very beginning Legolas was able to make shift to use it. Its strength had been left unaffected, and Legolas relied upon his other arm for dexterity.

The Elf's thoughts were interrupted when Mithrandir spoke.

"Pity about Gríma. He is quite intelligent, really, but he has chosen the wrong master."

"Saruman," said Legolas.

Mithrandir chuckled. "My dear boy, I know that there is a similarity in sound between Sar_um_an and Sauron, but you are no longer an elfling. You ought to be able to distinguish between the two. Gríma serves Sauron, as I am sure you intended to say."

"I meant to say Saruman," Legolas said stubbornly, "and if Sauron and Saruman are indistinguishable, it is in terms of wickedness, not pronunciation."

Mithrandir shook his head, bewildered, as always, as to why Legolas had formed so firm a dislike for the master of the Order of Istari. The wizard would have not been so bewildered, however, if he had known what was about to transpire. Gríma had been forced to let the wizard and 'brat' depart, but in his eyes the matter was not at an end. "We are not far from Fangorn Forest," he said to the Riders. "It behooves us, for the sake of courtesy, that a visit be paid to its master, the wizard Saruman."

To this plan, many objected. "This is a scouting mission, not a diplomatic one," protested one Rider. "Would you leave our borders unguarded," argued another, "in order to bandy words with a wizard?"

Gríma had anticipated these objections and in fact welcomed them. For his purposes, it would be better to have no witnesses.

"Your words are just," he said smoothly, "and I would by means deprive our land of the services of this patrol. It is only necessary that one should ride to Isengard. As I have treated with Lord Saruman on other occasions, I shall take this task upon me."

Their objections answered, the Riders subsided. Truth be told, they were glad to be rid of Gríma Wormtongue. With a new leader, one of their own choosing, they swiftly rode off toward the East Wall. As for Gríma, he turned his horse's head toward the northwest. He rode the mount unmercifully, for he cared for the comfort of neither Man nor horse. Sweating, with heaving flanks and foaming mouth, the stallion bore him to the steps of Isengard, where Gríma carelessly handed him off to a goblin-man who had no more regard for the horse than its master. Given half a chance, the slave would have as soon eaten the horse as groomed it.

Saruman stood upon the steps awaiting his creature, and Gríma bowed low. "My Lord Saruman, as you have bade me, I bring news of the Grey Meddler."

"Excellent," intoned the white wizard. "Where is he? What is he about?"

"He has but lately entered Rohan, traveling west toward the Gap of Rohan."

"Does he return from Gondor?"

"From the environs of Mordor, my Lord."

"Mordor?" So the Grey Fool was scouting out Mordor. Saruman wondered what intelligence his rival had gained. Well, he would soon find out.

"Is he alone?"

"No, my Lord. He is accompanied by one man-brat."

"Not a young Elf?"

"No, my Lord."

Odd, Mithrandir had set out with Legolas. Was it too much to hope that an ill fate had befallen the elf-brat? But who then was this man-brat? Some stray Mithrandir had picked up, as was his wont? Or perhaps Mithrandir had joined up with Elrond's fosterling? Estel his name was, if memory served. However, whoever the man-brat was, he was of no importance. Saruman dismissed him from his mind and turned to other matters.

"If he travels with only one man-brat, why did you not secure him?"

Gríma cringed nervously. "He enjoys the good offices of Théodred Théoden's son. I did not dare act against him, for the Rohirrim who accompanied me would not have permitted it."

'Théodred', brooded Saruman. 'He is more and more an impediment to my plans. Well, impediments can be removed'. Returning his attention to Gríma, the wizard drew forth a gold coin.

"For your service I reward you, as always. In the future I hope to reward you even more generously, when I am in a position to do so. You shall be able to enjoy a prize of your own choosing."

Gríma's snake eyes glittered. He had long ago picked out his prize. Again he bowed low and then backed away obsequiously. Saruman turned his back upon his spy and began to ascend the steps. As he did so, Gríma shouted for his horse. The mount, still sweating, was brought to him, and the Man whipped him into a gallop. He was anxious to return to Edoras, where he might gaze upon the promised prize and dream of the time when she would be his.

As Gríma rode through the Ring of Isengard, Saruman was giving instructions to his servants. "This time I will brook no failure," he declared threateningly. "The wizard must be secured so that I may learn what he knows. Kill his companion—he is of no use to me—but bring me the wizard unharmed. But remember! He must be blindfolded so he does not know that I am his captor. He must think that he has been taken by the forces of Sauron. He may yet be of use to me as an ally and a tool."

His servants shambled from the throne room, and within the hour a combined force of orcs and goblin-men sallied forth from Isengard, making for Dunland. The force was twice as large as the one Saruman had sent out earlier. From a window high above, Saruman watched their departure. This time, he thought, there would be no escape for the Grey Fool.


	11. Chapter 11: Spider Elf

**Thanks to the following reviewers:_ Elfinabottle, K'lara7, Windwraith, The Inebriated Lion-Minion, A Whisper In the Wind,_** **_Leggy9591,_****_Krissy Wonder, Opalkitty, and CAH._ I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you.**

**Chapter 11: Spider Elf**

Legolas stood at the border between Dunland and Eregion rubbing down his horse. "You have served us well," he said to the horse, "but now that we have reached Eregion, it is only right that I return you to your master. You and your companion must make straight to Edoras and present yourself before Théodred at Meduseld."

Legolas wove the fletching from one of his arrows into the horse's mane so that Théodred should have no doubt as to who had sent the horse. Then he moved on to the other horse and did likewise. When he was finished, he divided the last of the Dunlending apples between the two horses.

"Farewell, my friends," the Elf called as the horses trotted south. He turned to Mithrandir, who had been watching grumpily. "I don't see why we couldn't have kept them a little longer," the wizard complained. "Now we shall move more slowly. I don't feel altogether myself, I hope you know."

"I thought," teased Legolas, "that you were the one who did not wish us to make use of horses."

"I didn't want to ride horses _to_ Mordor; that doesn't mean I had any objections to riding them _from_ Mordor."

"Mithrandir," Legolas chided gently, "we have already ridden these horses far beyond the borders of Rohan. I do not think Théoden had that in mind when he offered to loan us mounts."

Mithrandir sighed. "Yes, I suppose it would be an abuse of his hospitality to take them any further. So we must walk tomorrow, then?"

"Unless you mean to provide us with wings so that we might fly," Legolas replied cheerfully.

"Scamp," muttered Mithrandir. He yawned. "Aren't you going to light a fire? It grows cold."

"Here," said Legolas, handing the wizard his cloak. "I will not only light a fire, but I will fetch water and brew you a cup of tea."

The wizard brightened. "Tea? I thought we ran out of tea weeks ago."

"It is true that we have no more of the tea that you procured from the Shire. However, I shall steep some athelas leaves in hot water. That beverage will smell better than Hobbit brew, and it is medicinal to boot."

"There is nothing wrong with the aroma of Shire tea-leaf!"

"I will grant you that tea-leaf does smell better than pipe weed," replied Legolas, "and it tastes better, too, but athelas has healing power, whether inhaled, imbibed, or mashed into a poultice. Indeed, after you have drunk the liquor, I shall make such a poultice and bind it over your wound."

While Legolas and Mithrandir were debating the relative merits of athelas and tea-leaf, miles away Saruman stood upon the summit of Orthanc. A flock of crebain had but lately returned from a scouting mission, and now, summoning forth all his power, the white wizard concentrated upon sending an obscuring mist toward the border between Dunland and Eregion. "You shall not know of the approach of my servants," he chanted, raising his staff high into the air and gesturing in the direction of his intended victims. "Let your eyes be blind; let your ears be deaf. Sleep. Let one of you awake to death, and the other to the ministrations of the Haradhrim who in my dungeon await you."

Oblivious to the approaching threat, Legolas had now lit the fire and placed the camp kettle upon it. Bending over the vessel, he was about to cast a handful of athelas leaves into it when suddenly he thrust them back into his pouch and reached for his bow.

"What is it, Legolas?" asked Mithrandir.

"I do not know," said the Elf. "Come away from the fire."

Mithrandir arose at once, seizing his staff as he did so. Elf and wizard retreated to the darkness of the tree line.

"Mithrandir," Legolas said softly, "do you recall how you hid in a tree when we were pursued by Orcs?"

"Aye, Legolas."

"I know you still suffer from your wound, but you must once again climb into the shelter of a tree."

The Elf knelt upon the ground so that Mithrandir might stand upon his shoulders. Then, in one smooth movement, the Elf stood up. With several branches now within easy reach, the wizard clambered to safety. Once Legolas saw that Mithrandir was ensconced within the tree, he moved to the other side of the clearing and drew and nocked an arrow. Silently he watched and listened. He saw and heard nothing, but he was convinced that enemies approached. "Something wicked this way comes," he murmured. "I do not know what form it will take, but I am sure of its presence."

The foes that he could neither see nor hear now drew near indeed, and at last they were close enough so that Saruman's spell no longer sufficed to hide their shapes. "Yrch," hissed Legolas. The Orcs and half-goblins stopped in the tree line opposite from the one where Legolas had taken his stand. As he had hoped, they were intent upon him, little dreaming that above them crouched their actual target. They studied Legolas; he studied them.

"That's the man-brat," grunted an Orc to their chieftain, who was one of the half-goblins. "Ain't we suppose ter slay 'im?"

"It's true the master don't want the man-brat," replied the leader, "but we had better not cut his throat just yet. No, not 'till 'e squeaks and tells us where the wizard be. Take 'im boys!"

At his cry, Orcs poured into the clearing and rushed Legolas, who coolly shot them down until he had no more arrows in his quiver. Then he drew both his blades and began to cut down his foes two-handed. He judged that at the outset he faced one-hundred Orcs and half-goblins, and for a warrior-elf of his rank, those were good odds. He swiftly slew a great number of the foes who swarmed at him, and the survivors began to hang back, unwilling to close with a 'man-brat' who fought with such skill and ferocity. What Legolas did not know, however, was that Saruman had sent out not one-hundred Orcs but two. Just as the first wave of Orcs broke entirely, a second wave, equal in number to the first, swarmed out of the woods at Legolas's back.

The Elf was taken completely by surprise, a thing unheard of, and Mithrandir, safe in his tree, watched in despair as the wave swept over his friend. He saw Legolas struggling amongst his foes, and then one big brute of an Orc, who looked more than half Troll, struck the Elf to the ground with one mighty blow from a club.

Trembling, Mithrandir raised his staff. "Injured as I am, I do not know what strength is within me," he vowed, "but I shall venture it all for Laiqua." Uttering a word of Power, he cast his body and soul into the hands of Eru Ilúvatar. From the end of his staff shot out a mighty blast that enveloped the entire clearing. Mithrandir closed his eyes. When he opened them again, not a single Orc was standing. Closing his eyes again, Mithrandir felt his grip upon the tree loosen. In a faint, he plummeted to the ground.

When Mithrandir awoke, he lay upon his back. He opened his eyes, and above him he saw rafters rather than tree limbs. "Where am I?" he said to the ceiling, "and where is my friend?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Groaning a little, he turned his head stiffly in that direction. Sitting cross-legged was a little girl no older than five years of age. She was examining Mithrandir's pointed hat, holding it upside down and peering into it as if she expected to find something hidden therein—a rabbit, perhaps, or a dove. Feeling the eyes of the wizard upon her, she looked up and smiled shyly. "I liked the horse with the horn upon his head," she whispered. "Will you make another by and by?"

"I remember you," marveled the wizard. "Tell me, child. Do you know what has become of my friend?"

The little girl giggled. "He is beside you, Grandfather."

Mithrandir turned his head gingerly in the other direction. As the child had said, beside him lay Legolas. The Elf's face was badly bruised, and he was deeply unconscious.

"Child, my friend had a little pouch with some leaves in it—not pipe weed, mind you, but something that you might think an ordinary weed. Is that pouch anywhere hereabouts?"

The child scrambled to her feet and went to a corner, where Mithrandir saw that their gear had been piled. She rummaged about a little and then returned with a small leathern pouch.

"Excellent! Now, my child, I need a vessel of hot water. Can you get that for me?"

"Yes, Grandfather. My Ma is without, cooking supper. She'll let you have some hot water."

The little girl vanished out the door. A few minutes later she returned, followed by a woman who ducked a little to enter through the low opening. In her hands she bore a pot from which arose tendrils of steam.

"Thank you, daughter," Mithrandir said gratefully. Placing the pot upon the floor, the woman smiled but said nothing. Mithrandir crawled to the edge of the pallet and dropped a handful of leaves into the water. Soon the aroma of athelas filled the room. Legolas stirred but his eyes remained closed. Mithrandir plucked a leaf from the bowl and waved it under the Elf's nose. Legolas moaned and opened his eyes a little.

"'Thrandir?" he murmured.

Mithrandir sighed with relief. "Legolas, when that Orc struck you down, I feared you were dead."

"It takes more than one Orc to kill an Elf," rasped Legolas, attempting a smile, a rather lopsided one.

"Will two hundred do?" retorted the wizard. "Because I very much believe that that is the number that assailed you!" He examined the Elf's face carefully. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed. "I believe that your nose has been broken. It looks a trifle askew. Perhaps Elrond will be able to set it so that it is straight again."

Legolas shrugged dismissively. "I don't mind. Perhaps now Men will no longer be so quick to say that I am pretty."

While the two were speaking, the woman had vanished. Now she returned, bearing two bowls and accompanied by her husband.

"Good morning, Grandfather," the Man said to Mithrandir. "And I am glad to see you awake, young Master," he said, turning to Legolas. "You were very kind to my son. My land is poor, and I should never have had the wherewithal to pay for his apprenticeship."

In an attempt to be polite, Legolas tried to push himself up on his elbow but fell back.

"Nay, Master, lie still," the Man said hastily.

If the Elf could not arise, at least he could speak. "Your son is a worthy lad; I was honored that I might assist him."

The woman sighed and stepped forward. "Whilst you exchange pleasantries," she chided her husband gently, "this stew grows cold." She pulled a rough hewn three-legged stool next the bedstead and placed two bowls upon it. Her husband laughed.

"My wife doesn't speak o'ermuch, but when she does, it is to the point. We will leave you to your supper."

The two humans retreated, and Mithrandir helped Legolas to sit up. There was little meat and much cabbage in the stew, but it was hot and well-flavored with herbs. Legolas felt his strength returning. "I think I shall be ready to depart upon the morrow," he declared.

"You are forgetting that it is not entirely up to you," Mithrandir replied. "I have some say in this matter, and it is my counsel that we should send a message to Elrond and ask that Elves be sent to fetch us."

Legolas looked horrified. "Mithrandir! I do not wish to be carried home as if I were an infant!"

"I said not that you would be carried. Would it not please you if Elrohir and Elladan brought us horses?"

Mollified, Legolas agreed that Mithrandir's plan was indeed a good one. When the woman came for their bowls, Mithrandir asked her if she could spare someone to carry a message to Rivendell.

"To the elf-palace!" she exclaimed, looking a little frightened.

Legolas smiled. He had never thought of Elrond's home as a 'palace', and he knew that Elladan, Elrohir, and Estel would not have called it that, either. Indeed, it was generally known to Elves, Dwarves, and Men—and the occasional Hobbit—as the Last Homely House East of the Sea. Hardly the name of a palace!

"Mother," the Elf said, "you needn't fear. I will give the messenger tokens to present to the Master of Imladris, who will order that their bearer be received with kindness and honor."

Reassured, the woman summoned her second son. Legolas knelt upon the dirt floor of the hut and drew a map for the youngster, who carefully memorized it. Then Legolas gave him one of his matched knives.

"Show this knife to Master Elrond in token that you bear a message from Legolas Thranduilion," he told the lad. "Tell him that it is the desire of Legolas and of Gandalf the Grey that he send Elladan and Elrohir to this place with spare horses. I pray that you assure him that we are not seriously injured, but that it would be best if we rode the remainder of the distance, for we have both been ill."

The lad promised to set out at once, and Legolas arose from the floor and turned toward Mithrandir. To his dismay, Mithrandir was lighting his pipe. "I did not think that any pipe weed remained," the Elf exclaimed. "The child brought me more," replied the wizard, gesturing toward the little girl, who had slipped into the hut while Legolas had been preoccupied with his map drawing. Legolas made a face. "Mithrandir, I believe I shall shelter in a tree for the time being."

Mithrandir drew the pipe from his mouth and sent a dragon flying in the Elf's direction. Legolas batted it away, and the child giggled. At the sight of the young one's happy face, Legolas could not keep from smiling himself.

"I suppose I _do_ understand your delight in pipe weed, Mithrandir—but you must concede that it smells foul!"

The wizard nodded his understanding, if not his agreement, and the two friends parted for the night on amiable terms.

**Epilogue**

_Spider Elf, Spider Elf  
Clings like a spider to cliff shelf.  
Lowers a wizard with silken thread,  
No fear he'll drop him on his head.  
Look out!  
Here comes the Spider Elf!_

Legolas went to the window. "If you sing that wretched song one more time," he shouted, "upon your heads I shall pour the contents of my chamber pot!" The singers fell silent. "I know you are still out there, Elladan, Elrohir," Legolas continued, "and I advise you not to take my threat lightly."

The bough of a bush dipped slightly and then sprang back into place. Satisfied that his invisible serenaders had retreated, Legolas returned to his bed, where Elrond had insisted that he remain for several more days. "You have suffered a concussion, Legolas," he had told the young Elf, "and I command you to stay abed. I do not request. I do not advise. I command."

Truth be told, Legolas found it easy to obey this order, for keeping to his room spared him the attention that would otherwise have been paid to his shorn locks. Legolas grinned as he remembered Elrond's reaction to his unorthodox haircut. Legolas had ridden up to the hall with his hood up, and he had kept his hood up when Elrond and others of his household, Erestor among them, had come out to greet the wizard and Elf. Erestor had of course frowned and gestured significantly at the young Elf's head. Even though Erestor was no longer Legolas's tutor, he still insisted upon lessoning him at every opportunity. Obediently, hiding his smile, Legolas drew back his hood. "Your hair!" exclaimed Elrond, horrified. "Pray do not tell me that Mithrandir did indeed cast a spell upon you!"

"Far from it," said the wizard. "Legolas sacrificed his hair to secure our escape from Mordor, and the deed was done with an ordinary blade, wielded by myself with great skill, I might add." With that, the Istar launched into a recitation of their adventures. By the time he had finished, Elladan and Elrohir were softly singing "Spider Elf, Spider Elf," and they had not left off tormenting Legolas since.

Legolas's reflections were interrupted by a knock upon the door.

"Enter," he called, and Mithrandir strolled in. "Hullo, my boy," he called genially. "I have come to cheer you up." The wizard pulled out his pipe. "Thought I'd entertain you by blowing smoke creatures," he teased.

"Mi-thran-dir," said Legolas warningly.

"Oh, very well," said the wizard, smiling as he put away his pipe and helped himself to an apple from a bowl on the table next to Legolas's bed. "In fact, I have come to bid you farewell for the time being. I have an errand to the Shire that cannot wait."

"Do you feel strong enough?"

"Quite. I believe Elrond must have laced my weed with athelas."

Legolas pretended to pout. "Elrond may meddle with your pipe weed, but I may not. I call that unfair!"

"My dear lad," rejoined Mithrandir, "I should have thought that you had quite enough of 'meddling' with my pipe weed. If I recall correctly, you did not have the stomach for it."

Legolas laughed his acknowledgement, and Mithrandir arose and went to the door. "Stay well, Mithrandir," Legolas called. Mithrandir grinned before replying.

"And you as well—Spider Elf."

Mithrandir ducked from view as an apple flew in his direction. "Waste of a good apple," Legolas said regretfully as he lay back upon his pillow. "Fortunately, there are more where that come from, and I am sure that the day will come when I shall be able to replenish my stock."

And with that happy thought let us leave our Spider Elf.


End file.
